


Darker Still

by starkjoy



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Adult Content, Angst, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, M/M, Mystery, Non-Linear Narrative, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-02-11 05:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12928281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkjoy/pseuds/starkjoy
Summary: A year after Eleven closes the gate, Billy Hargrove disappears.





	1. Now

 

**December 11th, 1985**

 

“Earth to Harrington.”

Steve jerks, torn from his thoughts by a gentle nudge to his side. “What?” he mutters, blinking at the circle of teens sitting before him. His voice sounds foreign even to himself, low and raw and absent.

Dustin’s bushy curls obscure his arched brow. “It’s your turn, dude.”

“Uh, right,” Steve swallows. He clears his throat and fidgets with the set of cards in his hands, little red hearts and black spades shifting over his fingertips. The irony nearly draws a humorless laugh from his lips, but nothing comes. Nausea swirls at the bottom of his stomach and he feels panic threaten to bubble from its depths. Something has clawed its way into his chest and poisoned his veins—but should he really complain when he's led it there himself?

“Full house,” he announces without preamble, setting the cards face up on the Byers' coffee table for the group to see.

Lucas groans and drops his head into his hands. Will snickers.

“How do you keep winning?” Mike whines, clearly not enthused as pushes the chip pile toward the older teen.

 _That_ elicits a snort from Steve, but it’s still humorless.

It’s Will’s turn to deal, and while the group chats as he shuffles Dustin leans into Steve’s space from his right. There’s no nudge this time.

“Hey, you okay?” he whispers.

Steve meets his eyes. The kid’s older now—hardly a kid anymore, he reminds himself—but there’s still an innocence to the way he asks. They’ve fought literal demons together, but there’s no way he’d expect something like _this._

“Yeah, bud, I’m good.”

Dustin raises a skeptical brow.

Steve forces a smirk. “It’s just my poker face.”

His friend considers the statement, then shrugs. “I guess it’s working, then.”

“Yeah,” he responds absentmindedly. _I guess it’s working, then,_ his memory repeats, but this time the words spill from full lips and a devilish smile.

It’s been sixteen hours now since Steve last saw Billy. He isn’t sure if he feels relieved or sick.

 

* * *

 

Later, after the boys had their fill of losing to Steve, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas settle on the Byers' living room carpet to read comics. Despite their interest in tackling “mature” card games now that they’ve entered high school, the party has yet to move on from their old habits. Dustin had said expertise in both Dungeons and Dragons and poker would make them “well-rounded citizens.” Steve, who’d been dragged into a DnD game or two himself, isn’t quite sold.

Steve sits at the edge of the couch and flips through an old newspaper Mrs. Byers had left there, eyes roving over the pages without retaining any information. Even if he wasn’t distracted Steve wouldn’t be gleaning much—he’d never been the newspaper type. Or the reading type.

A snort sounds from his left, and Steve lowers the paper to see Will peering at him from the other side of the sofa. The kid had opted to draw instead, fancy notebook propped up on bent knees.

“What?” Steve asks.

Will shakes his head. “You’re not even reading that,” he remarks softly.

The older boy swallows. While he still knows Will the least out of the party, at times it feels as if the kid can see him more clearly than the rest. Steve wonders if everything Will’s been through with the Upside Down has given him some sort of magic mind-reading powers, or if it’s just the trauma of it all that’s made him wise beyond his years. _Will the Wise, that’s for sure._

Steve drops the paper to his lap. He glances at the other three boys, who are adamantly discussing something about the _efficacy of Batman’s armor_ , and then looks back at Will. “You caught me,” he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Do you want to watch me draw?” Will murmurs after a moment, eyes wide. From what Steve understands, the boy tends to keep his art private. He’s surprised at the offer. Will almost seems as if he is too.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve agrees, sliding down the couch to rest beside the smaller teen. He’s always been tiny for his age, and despite this year's growth spurt he’s still much shorter than the rest of his friends. It tugs on some protective instinct in Steve’s chest and he feels an overwhelming urge to protect him—from the literal monsters lurking beneath them and the figurative ones waiting inside.

“So it’s sort of a, uh, space center, I guess,” Will explains, one hand scratching his brown hair.

“Kinda looks like those things from Star Wars or whatever,” Steve says.

Will’s eyes light up. “Yeah, it's like that, but this is more of a stationary community? I was thinking of drawing the inside view after, but I don't know if that’s stupid.”

“I think it’d be cool,” Steve responds. “I like all the colors.”

Will quirks his lips. “Thanks. I wasn't sure if it was too much. Usually everybody else renders spaceships in grays or whites.” He peeks up at Steve through his bangs. “Like in Star Wars.”

“Well,” Steve begins, leaning back against the couch. “Maybe everybody else is just boring.”

The younger teen smiles fully at that. He glances away and begins shading one edge of the drawing with his colored pencil. “That’s what Jonathan always says.”

Two years ago Steve couldn’t have imagined a universe where he’d be giving similar advice as Jonathan Byers. He couldn’t have imagined a lot of things that have happened since then—the monsters, little girls with super powers, Barb. Nancy.

_Billy._

Steve’s stomach flips. He pushes the thought from his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the soft red drag of Will’s pencil.

“Sucks that Max couldn’t come,” Dustin says from the carpet. Steve ears perk at the statement, but he keeps his eyes on the drawing. His heart thumps.

Lucas hums. “Yeah. She said she couldn’t get a ride.”

Steve feels Dustin’s eyes on him. He doesn’t look.

“Whatever,” he hears Mike say then, voice like a shrug. Steve recognizes the tone hovering beneath the words, however, like he’s wishing someone could be there himself.

Steve wraps one hand over his own wrist and tightens. If he squeezes hard enough maybe it’d break. His heart is pounding now, drumming quicker and quicker and quicker, and soon enough he knows the tears will spill over—

“Hey boys!” Mrs. Byers calls into the living room. “Dinner’s ready. Oh, and no comics at the table.”

The three teens sprawled on the floor scramble upward. “I am freakin’ _starving,_ ” Dustin whispers to Mike and Lucas.

Steve clears his throat and sits up from the couch as Will moves to follow the group.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Byers is placing a hot Pyrex dish of casserole on the table with two mitts, steam billowing from the top. There’s potatoes, string beans, and a bowl of salad waiting for them as well. Will, who’s already seated with the rest of the boys, reaches out with his fork and plucks one potato from its plate and stuffs it in his mouth.

“No picking,” Mrs. Byers scolds without any fire to her words, “wait until everyone’s seated.” She glances at Steve.

“That’s alright, pick away,” Steve responds. “Thanks for all this, Mrs. Byers.”

She gives him a look. “Please, you know it’s Joyce.”

Steve sits at the end of the table, opposite Joyce and flanked by Dustin and Mike. As he’s spooning a helping of chicken casserole into his dish, the doorbell rings, followed by three loud, impatient knocks at the door. The entire room jumps. Steve turns on instinct, but Joyce is already up. “I’ll get it,” she says as she brushes past him, a soft hand on his shoulder.

“I didn't know you were coming—what’s wrong?” he hears Joyce say from the foyer. It’s silent for a moment, then a series of hushed voices follow.

Heavy boots stride down the hallway, floorboards creaking beneath their weight. Steve hears more footsteps shuffle near so he turns, torso twisted in his chair.

Hopper appears in the archway. His bulky police coat is sprinkled with snow and the tips of his boots are wet. He has one arm over Jane’s shoulder, who’s bundled up in an oversized parka and scarf, chestnut curls whisping out from beneath a woolen hat.

“El!” Mike exclaims. He pushes himself out from his chair and hurries over to his girlfriend with a soft smile. Steve watches as Joyce steps out from behind them and immediately moves to stand behind Will, placing two hands on his shoulders.

“Max?”

Steve whips his head back around at Lucas’ words. The redhead stands beside Hopper on the opposite side of Jane, cheeks red with cold and eyes brimming with something that makes his chest squirm. Lucas seems to notice as well: he immediately walks over and places one hand on her arm, concerned.

Max looks up to Hopper. She says nothing.

That’s when Steve notices a similar solemn expression on Jane’s face. He stands then, glancing back at Joyce and then meeting Hopper’s gaze. “Is everything okay?”

The cop takes in a deep breath, arm around Jane tightening. He opens his mouth to speak, but his daughter answers before he has the chance. “The gate is open.”

The room goes silent and tight, as if an invisible vacuum siphoned the air from everyone’s lungs.

 _“What?”_  Dustin blurts.

Mike knits his brows, mouth open in horror. “El, how—”

She’s silent as her eyes flick over to Will. Steve follows her gaze behind him. The boy’s face has gone white. 

“Wait,” Steve breathes, looking back to Hopper and Jane. “Does that mean the…Mind Slayer—?”

“Mind Flayer,” Lucas corrects.

“Right, does that mean that the Mind Flayer can find us? Does that mean those things are coming back—”

“Oh god oh god oh god,” Dustin starts hyperventilating beside him.

“Alright, alright,” Hopper interrupts, palms out. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

“Can’t you close it again?” Lucas asks Jane, panic setting into his voice. “How…how did it even open in the first place?”

Jane purses her lips, glancing at Mike and then up at Hopper.

“It’s okay, kid,” he murmurs.

The brunette raises her chin. Little flakes of still-frozen snow fall from her hat. “I did it.”

Mike’s eyes go wide. “ _What?_ El, why would you…”

“I’m confused,” Joyce says, stepping forward. Steve knows she’s trying to keep calm for her son’s sake, but he spots her trembling fingers. “Sweetheart, can’t—can’t you just shut it again? Like Lucas said? We should close it now before—”

Jane shakes her head. “No.”

Joyce freezes. “No because you can’t?”

The girl shakes her head again, jaw taught. “Can. Won’t.”

“What do you mean, _won’t?”_ Dustin cries, marching closer. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, El? Or do you not remember the pack of demodogs who tried to kill us? What about the Mind Flayer we exorcised from Will’s body who, might I add, was planning on destroying us all—”

“It’s my fault.”

The room shifts, all eyes settling on Max. The redhead’s breathing heavily, but her shoulders are squared. “I asked her to.” 

Hopper sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “It’s no one’s fault,” he says. “We’re going to figure everything out.”

 _“Figure everything out?”_ Joyce repeats, calm fraying into anxiety. “What is there to figure out, Jim? The only thing to do is close the gate, _now_ —”

Hopper exhales. “I don’t know if we can do that yet.”

“Why?” Joyce presses. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Something dark flickers over the cop’s face. Steve thinks he almost seems afraid—but he can’t imagine what could be more terrifying than the threat of murderous, supernatural monsters on the loose.

Then he’s staring at Steve.

“Did Billy mention any plans he had for today?”

Steve freezes. His stomach plunges like a rock in water, dragging his heart down alongside it, and he feels as if that thing in his chest has inched its way through to his skin, scraping him raw and letting the excess melt from his body.

“No,” he answers truthfully, willing himself to stay calm.

_I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t._

Hopper tightens his jaw and gives a soft nod. “Did he say anything to you at all lately that would give you concern? Anything out of the ordinary, I mean.”

The implication of Hopper's questions finally occurs to Steve. His gut clenches with nervous dread and his chest picks up its pace.

“Wait, what does Billy have to do with this?” His voice falters. He can tell the room notices.

Hopper inhales and glances quickly down at Max. The redhead stares at Steve, pleading, then flicks her eyes away. They’re glassy.

Steve looks between the two. His thumping heart rests on a single string and it's worn thin, ready to snap. “What's going on?”

Max shakes her head.

"We found Billy's car about six miles from here, near the edge of the forest,” Hopper explains, voice somber. “He wasn’t at the scene. There was…a good amount of blood.”

Joyce Byers raises a hand to her lips.

Steve hears the words, but they don't register. “I don’t...I don't understand.”

“I tried to find him,” Max murmurs. “I couldn’t, so I went to El—I knew she was good at finding people and…” she trails off.

“He's dark,” Jane finishes.

“Wh—what are you saying?” Lucas begins, eyes wide. “That he’s—”

“We don’t know, not yet,” Hopper interrupts, a careful expression on his face.

The floor feels as if it’s been tugged from beneath Steve’s feet. He grips one hand on the back of his chair, knuckles white. He stares down at the floor as he fights quivering lips.

_This can't be happening._

_This is my fault._

_My fault._

He recognizes Will in his periphery, who’d come to stand beside his mother. “You think…he could be There?” he hears him ask Jane.

“Maybe. Don’t know.”

He feels Will’s eyes on him, but he can’t look up. He can’t think, he can’t move, his chest is pounding, he’s going to be sick—

“Listen Steve, we’re doing everything we can to find him,” he hears Hopper say, but it sounds leagues away. His vision goes blurry.

He feels a small hand on his own. “Steve, are you okay?”

Will’s face is the last thing he sees before everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from "A Night Like This" by The Cure.
> 
> Thoughts and comments are very much appreciated.


	2. Then

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm extra I've made a [playlist/soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/stark-joy/playlist/19rXLUyRk3lctJweyNugjN) for this fic. Songs will be updated with each new chapter. Enjoy!

 

**December 25th, 1984**

 

Paper crinkles as Steve shifts the large box perched in his lap. He tears, layers of green and red snowflakes peeling away to reveal a large  _Radio Shack_ logo.

Steve looks up from the gift, eyes wide. “You got me the BetaHi-Fi?”

His father glances at his watch. “That’s what your mother said you wanted.”

“No it is, I just,” Steve pauses, running a hand through his unstyled hair. “It’s a lot. Thank you.”

Steve’s mom leans over and places a kiss atop his head. “Anything for you, honey.”

“What’s that thing do, anyway? Why’s it any different from our other VCR?” his dad asks. He seems more interested in his newspaper than the question.

“It has stereo sound for movies. You can also play cassettes—”

“Doesn’t it have its own remote control, Steven? The man at the Radio Shack said it had a remote—”

“I didn’t ask you, Eileen,” his father interrupts, “I asked my son. He can speak for himself.”

Eileen rolls her eyes. “Oh please, Tim.”

Steve sighs. “Yes, it’s got a remote Mom.”

“Oh good, because if that gentleman mislead us I’d call up the store immediately and demand a refund.”

Tim snorts at that.

“Anyway,” his mother continues, “finish up your last gifts. We want to make sure we get to church on time because we’re leaving for Aunt Shirley’s right after.”

“These are all for me?” Steve asks, peering under their blinking tree at the final six unwrapped presents. He’s already opened twenty. “What about you guys?”

“We bought each other some things while we were in New York," his father answers behind his paper.

His mom smirks. “You should see my new mink. I’ll wear it today.”

 

* * *

 

The church swarms when they arrive, families in their Christmas best packing like sardines into pews and stragglers swimming through the aisles to find seats of their own. _Noel_ blares from the organ near the altar and somewhere in the distance a baby wails. Church is a yearly event for the Harrington family, and based on today’s attendance Steve suspects many others share that tradition.

“Tim, there are barely any seats left,” his mom sighs as she undoes one button of her mink coat. Her hair’s blown out big and brown, making her seem taller than she already is, and a light purple shadow sparkles on her usually bare eyelids. She pulls her leather gloves off in a huff.

Tim tugs his scarf from his neck. “I can see that, Eileen.”

“Well, I’m not standing. Not in these shoes,” she responds.

Steve rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses. He’s wearing one of the new sweaters he’d gotten this morning under his collar-popped peacoat. He’s been inside the congested chapel for two minutes and he's already sweating. He can’t imagine how his mom’s withstanding the heat in all that fur.

“Take those off son, it’s rude,” his father mutters. Steve rolls his eyes one last time before removing his Ray Bans and sliding them in his jacket pocket.

His dad leads them toward the left section where the last open seats remain, skipping ahead of the usher who’d tried to intervene. On the way, Steve spots the Wheeler family sitting in the middle section and his heart stops—there’s Nancy. She's wearing a shiny pink dress and her hair's done up with a pearl clip. He's not surprised they’re here since St. John's is the only church in Hawkins, but it’s unsettling nonetheless. He hasn’t even seen Nancy since he dropped Dustin off at the Snowball before winter break started. Their breakup's still raw despite his best attempts to let the past go. Having her near just makes it worse.

Once they’re settled, Steve flips through a psalm book as he waits for the service to begin. He has no idea what any of it fucking means. He's mostly trying to ignore Nancy—she didn’t notice him before and he’s not sure he wants her to now—and he’s doing surprisingly well. That is, until his mother leans into his space and whispers “Is that Nancy over there?”

“Yes,” Steve says, eyes glued to the page below him.

Eileen gives a judgmental hum. “And to think I thought she was a nice girl.”

“Can we not, Mom?” he mutters.

“I only want what’s best for you, honey,” she replies with a pat on his knee.

Mass begins and Steve attempts to pay attention to the sermon, but it doesn’t take. Instead, he begins counting the red poinsettias framing the altar. He’s on number twenty-six when a movement to his left catches his attention. An usher leads a family to a pew a few rows ahead and silently motions for those seated to scoot down. The extra space is only enough to fit two. The husband offers the seat to his wife and daughter, both of whom are redheads—

_Is that Max?_

His mind flashes to the night at the junkyard, to the Byers’ house, to getting the shit beat out of—

Steve smells him before he sees him. The scent of cigarettes and cologne hits him like a brick to the face, and suddenly Billy fucking Hargrove is strolling down the lefthand aisle, slowly trailing behind his half-seated family. He’s wearing Levi’s and a jean jacket, a sore thumb among everyone’s dressy holiday ensembles, and Steve spots an earring shine behind his dirty-blonde curls. When Billy reaches his father, they exchange hushed words and then move toward the side wall to stand.

Steve drops his head back to the book of psalms, chest racing. And he'd thought _Nancy_ being here was bad. He's never actually prayed in church before, but he sends one up this time around in hopes of some miracle that Billy doesn’t spot him from where he stands a few feet away.

He hasn’t spoken to the guy since their fight last month. Billy’s silence was a welcome change from his previous taunting and jostling—Steve guesses he’d taken what Max had threatened to heart—but the blonde had continued to shoot dark looks his way over the weeks leading up to winter break. He knows Billy hasn’t forgotten, even if he’s keeping quiet for now. Steve doubts the guy would finally decide to reignite their rivalry during church on Christmas Day, but Billy's also a goddamn lunatic so anything’s possible, really.

Later, when the organist begins playing _O Holy Night,_ Steve makes his first mistake: he looks up. He’d only meant to see what was happening, but in the act his eyes catch Billy ahead. Thankfully the blonde isn’t looking; instead, he’s leaning against the brick wall, clear eyes following the communion procession. He seems unlike himself, Steve notes. If it weren't for the outfit and curly mullet, he’d almost look respectful.

Steve realizes he's staring, so he turns his head away quickly. His father notices the abrupt movement and raises a brow. Steve responds with a close lipped smile. Apparently it’s enough to appease him, because he returns his sights to the priest without question.

Steve exhales and drops his eyes back down to the open book in his lap. He manages to keep them there for several moments before he gives into his curiosity—his second mistake—and quickly glances upward.

This time Billy’s staring right at him.

Steve freezes, all the heat in his body surging toward his cheeks. Billy shifts when their eyes connect, leaning his head back against the wall and raising his chin. His tongue darts out slightly to wet his bottom lip. Suddenly Steve’s not sure if he wants to make an excuse about the bathroom and book it out of there, or get up and tell Billy to go fuck himself in front of the entire congregation.

He settles on neither: the former would get him a scolding from his father and the second would land him a grounding instead, plus incessant questions from his mother. How would he even explain it? _Oh yeah mom, remember that time you and dad came back from that conference in Ohio and I had yellowing bruises on my face? That actually wasn't from an accidental basketball to the face during practice. I totally lied. Instead, I got my ass handed to me by this dickhead while trying to protect a group of preteens from supernatural monsters from another universe. That's why I threatened him in the middle of church._

Instead, Steve returns to his original plan: the book of psalms.

When mass ends, his family follows a line of people out from their pew and down the aisle. Thankfully Steve lost Billy in the crowd—if the asshole wants to stare at the back of his head then so be it, but Steve wouldn’t satisfy him with another look.

They reach the congested foyer where friends and families exchange pleasantries and others shake hands with the priest. For some reason Steve’s dad always stops to talk to the priest every Christmas—most likely to convince himself he's a good Christian, Steve guesses. As his father introduces himself to the cloaked man, Steve spots Nancy and her family at the other side of the room chatting with another group. The brunette’s back faces his way, so Steve doubts she saw him come in. Maybe he should be the bigger man and say hello—

“Anyway, this one seems to have taken on some interest in the Lord, isn’t that right son?” Steve’s dad thumps him on the back.

Steve turns around, drawn in by his father’s arm, and blinks. “Uh, what?”

“Well you had your nose in those psalms all service,” his father explains. He’s got a familiar smile on his face that Steve’s previously filed under “schmooze.”

Steve raises his brows. “Right. Yes. I’m very interested in…those,” he lies. “Praise Jesus,” he tacks on for extra measure before shaking the man's hand.

He’s saved when his mother steps forward to shake the priest’s hand. In the distraction, Steve glances over his shoulder to look at Nancy. She’s gone.

Steve steps away from his parents as they exchange a few final words with the priest and glances around the busy room. He finally spots Nancy's pink dress through the open front door: she's walking in the distance with her parents, Mike tailing a few feet behind her.

He’s talking to Max.

As the organ plays its final booming chorus of _Joy to the World,_ a sudden smoky scent wafts Steve’s way. Then there's a heat behind him.

“Merry Christmas, _King Steve,_ ” comes a low whisper in his ear.

Billy Hargrove brushes past him and walks to the exit, lighting a cigarette as he approaches the doorway. He pauses and peeks over his shoulder at Steve, cigarette perched between his full lips. He takes his drag as he glances away, smoke billowing behind him, and walks out.

 

* * *

 

“And so I hit a hole in one on a par four, can you believe that?”

Uncle Charlie shakes his head in disbelief, chuckling. “Damn Tim,” he says, "I have to get myself out on the course once the weather warms up.”

Steve picks at a half-eaten piece of ham on his plate. He’s participated in conversations on and off through dinner, but mostly he's kept to himself, distracted. He can't seem to shake the memory of Billy Hargrove breathing down his neck.

So Billy broke his silence. Does that mean Steve’s back on his hit list now? If it came to a rematch Steve couldn't lose—

“Honey, your aunt asked you a question.”

Steve blinks down the table to where his mother sits. Aunt Shirley smiles, fingers wrapped around the stem of her sixth glass of wine. His mother isn’t too far behind.

“I was only asking if you’d made any decisions about college. You're graduating this spring, no?”

Steve groans internally. The only subject worse would be Billy himself.

“I’m applying to a few, yeah,” he smiles.

Shirley raises her brows. “Which ones? Thinking of going Ivy like your parents?”

Tim snorts from the other side of the table. He sips from his glass of cognac. “Steven doesn’t have the grades for Penn. But we’ll get him in somewhere. If not, there’s always the family business. Right son?”

Steve smiles. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

**December 29th, 1984**

 

His parents leave for New York four days later.

It turns out one of the gifts they’d bought for themselves was a trip to a mountain resort in the Catskills. _We have to go now while we’ve taken off time from work,_ his mother had explained during Christmas dinner. _We’d take you too son, but we don't want you to miss school next week,_ his father added.

Steve isn’t surprised; this sort of thing happened all the time. They’d come home, smother Steve with attention and gifts, then be off on some business trip or vacation. He used to welcome their absence—it allowed him to host parties and invite girls over with ample privacy. He’d gotten his first blowjob from Becky Simmons when his parents were in Indianapolis four years ago, and lost his virginity to Laurie Brown a year later when they’d gone to Chicago. Now, however, after he’d lost his reputation, friends, and girlfriend, after he'd come face to face with evil monsters set to murder him _twice_ —after he'd almost _died_ —he feels uneasy in his sprawling, empty home.

After they’ve left for the airport, Steve fixes himself lunch and connects his new BetaHiFi VCR to the living room television. It's far more complicated than he’d anticipated—he really should have gotten his dad to help before he left—and it takes him several hours of pegging wires in different holes to get it started. Finally, around three o’clock he pushes his Betamax of _Risky Business_ into the VCR, settles himself on the couch, and presses play with the remote.

 _“My name is Joel Goodsen,”_   Tom Cruise's voice comes from the device, _“I deal in human fulfillment—”_

“Ugh, shit,” Steve curses. He must not have rewinded the tape the last time he’d watched it. He’s about to press rewind when the phone rings.

Steve sighs. He contemplates not answering it, but ultimately decides against it. He slides off the couch and walks to the kitchen.

“Hello?” he answers after he picks up the phone, spiraled chord swinging from the wall.

The other line crackles. Then: “Uh, yes, hello Mr. Harrington. My name is Dustin Henderson, I’m a—an associate of your son’s from school—”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Dustin, it’s me.”

“Oh, hey Steve.”

“What was that about? Did you call yourself my _associate?”_

“I assumed your parents would be home because of break! Your dad’s a big shot businessman, I don’t know how they communicate!”

“Alright, whatever. Why are you calling?”

“I’m wondering if you could do me a favor,” Dustin says.

Steve raises a brow. “What kind of favor?”

Dustin takes a deep breath from the other line. “Well, you see we just got our cat neutered and my mom doesn’t want to leave him, and the party’s been waiting all break to—”

“Dustin.”

“Right. Would you be able to give me a ride to the arcade? Mrs. Byers already offered to take me home, so you wouldn’t even have to come back for pick up.”

Steve inhales, running one hand through his hair. He glances into the living room where the end credits are still rolling. The sun’s started its early winter descent and shadows begin to shade the house.

“What time?” Steve sighs.

 

* * *

 

It’s dusk when they arrive at the arcade, neon lights electric against soft pink skies. “Thanks man,” Dustin says as Steve pulls up to the entrance.

“Anytime, bud,” Steve responds. “Remember, no purring.”

The kid rolls his eyes. “I know, I know.”

Dustin leaves the car as Mike, Lucas, and Will walk over. The group greets him and then nears closer when they notice Steve in his car. Mike waves.

Steve rolls down the passenger window. “Hi guys.”

“Hey,” Mike responds. Steve wonders if the kid had noticed him at church the other day, or if he'd been just as oblivious to his presence as Nancy.

A roaring engine nearby interrupts any further conversation. _I Wanna Rock_ blasts from the car’s speakers, thumping bass and electric guitar wafting into Steve’s open window. The kids turn their heads, startled by the noise, and their faces go white.

Steve glances in his rearview mirror. Billy’s parked his Camaro a few feet behind him.

_Shit._

Max exits the car, says something to him through the window, and then walks over to the group. She joins hands with Lucas and gives Steve an apologetic smile. 

“C’mon, let’s get inside,” Dustin urges. He glances at Steve one last time. _“Thanks,”_ he mouths before leading the others inside the arcade.

Steve turns his keys in the ignition. He needs to get out of here before Billy pulls any shit.

He’s too late.

Before Steve realizes what's happening, Billy Hargrove’s leaning through his passenger window, elbow propped up on the edge as he pulls from his cigarette.

Steve stands his ground. “Leave, Hargrove,” he orders before shifting his BMW into drive.

Billy’s lips twist into a wicked smile. “Not gonna ask me how the rest of my Christmas went, Harrington?”

“No, because I don’t give a shit.”

Billy sucks on the end of his cigarette, then breathes. “Never pegged you for the religious type. _Praise Jesus!”_ he mocks, mimicking Steve’s words to the priest.

_Shit. So he’d seen that too._

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m not.”

“So what then? You followed mommy and daddy to church like a good little boy?”

“You say that like you didn’t do the same exact thing.”

Billy snorts.

“What do you want, Hargrove? Here to give me another beat down?”

The blonde quirks his lips, breathing soft smoke into the car. “Not unless you want me to, pretty boy.”

Steve glares. “No Billy, I’d rather not get the shit beat out of me again, but thanks for the offer. Appreciate it. Now will you leave me alone?”

Something flickers over the blonde's face. He's still for a moment, but then he lowers the hand holding his cigarette into the car. He leans through the window, curls and cologne nearing close, and puts out his cigarette in Steve’s ashtray.

Then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for reading, your comments keep me motivated! 
> 
> Fun fact:
> 
> The BetaHiFi is a real thing. I wasn't born till the early nineties, so it's before my time, but [here's an awesome old Radio Shack catalog from 1984](http://www.radioshackcatalogs.com/catalogs_extra/sale_1984_382/) that's advertising it on page 11. It cost around $1400 current USD.


	3. Now

 

**December 12th, 1985**

 

It’s morning when Steve wakes, soft orange light warm behind his still-closed eyelids.

Curling underneath his duvet, Steve turns to rest on his right side. A pulsing ache burns across the side of his head as he shifts over the pillow—he doesn’t remember getting drunk last night, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d blacked out and woken up hungover as shit the next morning. He lifts one hand to rub at his brow, fingers lazily scrubbing crust from his eyes, and then blinks his vision into focus.

He frowns. He definitely doesn’t remember ever hanging an _Evil Dead_ poster on his wall.

Steve’s heart stops when he realizes he’s not in his room at all—he’s not even in his own home. He shoots up from bed, lungs tight and heartbeat thumping loud in his ears.

“Woah, easy there,” comes a voice from his left. Steve whips his head in its direction, startled, and sees Jonathan Byers walking through the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and a plate in the other. He rushes to place them on his dresser, Steve’s wild eyes following his every move, and then approaches the bed. “You’re okay Steve,” he says softly, hands out as if he’s calming a spooked horse.

Steve parts his lips. Everything rushes back at once, crashing like a roaring tide to shore. _This is Jonathan’s room, I’m at the Byers’ house, I was here last night for dinner, Hopper came, the gate—_

_Billy._

“Fuck,” Steve exhales shakily, lowering his face into his hands. His stomach churns with nausea, head thumping and thumping and thumping, and he doesn’t know if he should cry or throw up.

A quiet creak sounds from the doorway. “I have the aspirin—oh Steve, thank god.”

Steve looks up from his hands. Nancy’s rushing toward him next in a tri-colored turtleneck, wide blue eyes laced with concern and something else that looks a lot like _pity._ “How are you feeling?”

“Billy,” Steve croaks, ignoring her question. “Did they find Billy?”

Jonathan and Nancy glance at one another, silent. Nancy returns her gaze to Steve, that same look in her eye, and parts her lips. “Steve—” she begins, but the words fall short.

“Tell me,” he responds, jaw squared.

Nancy swallows. “No, not yet,” she murmurs. “Hopper’s out doing everything he can—”

“I’m leaving.”

The pair’s eyes go wide as Steve pushes the covers from his body, abandoning their comforting warmth, and scoots himself toward the edge of the bed.

“Hey, wait up,” Jonathan starts, reaching in front of Nancy to still him with one hand on his shoulder, “You could’ve been concussed—”

Steve pauses, socked feet dangling over the bed. That’s one part of last evening that isn't clear: he remembers standing in the kitchen, hand tight around the chair’s headboard as he listened to the news about Billy and the gate, but everything afterward is black. His stomach turns at the thought, queasy.

“Don’t care,” he grumbles, then shrugs Jonathan’s hand off and slides off the bed. The nausea hits him hard when he’s upright and he feels woozy, but he pushes through it, marching toward the door as he tries to calm his breathing.

“My mom said you had some kind of panic attack Steve,” Jonathan hisses behind him, his and Nancy’s quick footsteps chasing him down the hallway. “You fainted and hit your head on the kitchen table. You’ve been out for like twelve hours!”

Steve doesn’t care if he’d gotten whacked over the head with a damn baseball bat, he needs to get out, he needs to get out and look for Billy—

“Steve!” Nancy yells, grabbing onto his forearm. She tugs, forcing him to face her. Her eyes flicker with intensity, as if she’s writing an essay on an impending deadline or ready to go toe-to-toe with a Demodog.

“Let go, Nance,” Steve grinds out. He jerks his arm from her grip—Nancy’s strong, but she’s smaller and no match for his size—and steers right back around, determined to make his exit.

“What are you going to do, Steve?” Nancy calls from behind him. “What’s your plan? Because you're not going to help Billy by running around half unconscious!”

Steve whips around, eyes wide as he faces Nancy and Jonathan. “And what do you propose I do?” he yells back, “I can’t just sit inside and wait for Hopper to show up while Billy could be—” Steve’s voice cracks and he stops, swallowing.

Nancy’s face softens and her brows arch. “We’ll go see Hopper,” she coaxes gently, “but I need you to sit down for a minute, okay? Please.” She motions her head to the left and Steve realizes for the first time that they’re standing in the living room.

“C’mon, man,” Jonathan adds, gently leading him by the shoulder to the couch.

Steve obliges reluctantly. His chest slows as he drops to his seat, breathing out through his nose.

Jonathan lowers himself next to Steve on the sofa as Nancy leaves the room. It’s unnervingly silent, and in that moment it occurs to Steve that the house is empty.

“Where is everyone?” he asks, eyes darting around the room. Given the news about the gate, Steve’s surprised the group hasn’t holed up and begun strategizing.

“School,” Jonathan answers. “We figured it’d be less suspicious if it seemed like Nance and I skipped together than if the entire party were absent.”

Jonathan pauses, then sighs and leans forward to perch his elbows on his knees. “I was out with Nancy last night when everything happened, but I guess you know that already.” He runs one hand through the top of his hair.

“When I got home, mom had you in my bed. The party was freaking out and none of them wanted to leave you—they were all arguing about whether or not we should bring you to a hospital. My mom and Hopper persuaded them to go home and get some sleep. She should be home soon, she went to drop Will off fifteen minutes ago.”

Steve swallows, nods.

“We were worried. We almost did bring you to the hospital, but around ten you sort of came to—you were mumbling, trying to get up—we had to coax you to lie down and then you fell asleep. You remember that?”

“No,” Steve breathes. He rubs his temples, the pounding in his head still on high. The right side of his forehead burns with pain and he glides his fingers to the spot, feeling a rather large bump. He presses softly to the tense skin and winces.

It’s silent for a moment, then Jonathan speaks, voice softer than before. “I’m sorry about Billy,” he murmurs, but it sounds more like _sorry for your loss_ and something in Steve’s chest rages. He’s close to tears but he won’t let them fall, not now.

“I need to talk to Hopper,” is all he manages to say.

“I know,” Jonathan responds.

Nancy returns to the living room with the glass of water, aspirin, and plate of toast. She hands the water and aspirin to Steve—“Take,” she nods—before placing the toast on the coffee table. Steve swallows the pills with a gulp. The sight of the toast triggers a rumbling in his stomach, but he isn’t sure if it’s hunger or nausea.

A moment later they’re all startled by a scratch at the door—a key turning in the lock—and then it swings open, a snowy Joyce Byers stepping into the house. She drops her purse when she sees Steve at the couch and pushes the door shut with a _thud_ before hurrying over into the living room.

“Thank god you’re awake,” she breathes, cheeks still flush from the cold. She nears close, peering down to inspect his head. “How do you feel?”

Steve shrugs in response. His body’s buzzing with anticipation and _dread,_ and he just wants to get up and leave—

“Did you give him the aspirin?” Joyce asks, glancing over at her son.

“He just took it,” Nancy answers for him.

“Good, good,” Mrs. Byers murmurs. She backs herself to the arm chair and sits. “Honey,” she begins, gaze earnest, “I know you must be in shock.”

Steve releases a humorless snort at that, running one hand through his thick hair. It’s oily and unkempt from sleep, and he bets he looks as bad as he feels.

“What do you remember from last night?” she asks.

“Hopper and Jane. Max. The gate. Billy. Me blacking out.”

“Okay,” she breathes. “Steve you…you began hyperventilating at the table. Will asked if you were okay but your eyes they…you fainted right there, hit your head on the side of the table. Everyone rushed over and you wouldn’t get up. We brought you to Jonathan’s to rest—”

“I know,” Steve interrupts, “he told me everything.”

Joyce glances at her son, then nods.

“Have you talked to Hopper?” Steve asks after, voice hoarse. “Has he said anything about Billy?”

“I spoke to him on the phone early this morning. The entire force is on this Steve, I promise you,” she says softly, eyes never leaving Steve’s.

“And the Upside Down?” Jonathan chimes in, brows raised. He and Nancy exchange a concerned look.

“I don’t know, I,” she rubs her forehead, exhaling. “We’re all going to meet tonight to discuss it.”

“But Billy—the police can’t know about that, so they must be following some kind of lead, right?”

“Jim said they were treating it as a missing persons for now—”

“What do you mean, _for now?”_ Steve interrupts, heart pounding.

Joyce knits her brows, eyes wide. “Oh honey, I didn’t mean—” she pauses, biting on a quivering lip, then exhales. “When Will went missing, I was in shock,” she continues. “They rattled off these _statistics_ and _theories,_  and I'd thought _'if I only could swap places with him, then he'd be safe.'_ I'd bear all that pain that for Will."

 _I would for Billy,_ Steve thinks. _I'll do it._

"But then I...then I just  _knew_ he wasn’t gone," she continues, "and I hated when people'd give me that look, that _pity_ in their eyes as if I'd lost my mind, that I was sad and crazy for claiming my son was safe, even if all signs pointed otherwise. I _knew_ my Will was still with me, somewhere.”

“Mom,” Jonathan breathes. He moves to get up from the couch, but Joyce waves a hand.

“I’m okay,” she says, clearing her throat and wiping a stray tear from one eye. She leans forward, still bundled her winter coat, melting snowflakes visible on her dark bangs, and gazes at Steve. “Honey, we’re going to find him. _We’ll find him.”_

Steve’s lips twitch into a frown on their own accord—he feels a lump grow in his throat, but he won’t allow himself to cry. His stomach’s churning, his knee’s bouncing, his chest’s thumping quicker and quicker and quicker and suddenly it's all too much: he needs to leave. He bolts up from the couch and strides over to the coat rack near the front door.

“Honey,” he hears Joyce gasp.

Steve pulls his coat from the rack, throws it on, and bends down to toe on his sneakers. “M’going to see Hopper,” he mumbles before exiting the front door.

He’s marching toward his Beemer, digging one hand into his pocket for his keys, when he hears the front door slam.

“Steve, wait!” Nancy calls.

He turns his head and sees her and Jonathan jogging toward him, car keys dangling from the latter’s hand.

“You’re not driving,” Jonathan orders. “C’mon, we’re coming with you.”

 

* * *

 

Jonathan pulls into the police station entrance fifteen minutes later.

Nancy sits in the passenger seat, colorful turtleneck now hidden by a shearling coat, and Steve’s in the back, leaning the right side of his head against the chilly window. He’s still half-fuming from his earlier episode, but the cool sensation helps keep his heart rate in check. 

Nancy turns, peeking through the space between her seat and the door to eye him. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steve mutters, eyes focused out the window as Jonathan drives through the parking lot.

She nods, frowning, then faces forward.

“There’s a spot over there,” she says a moment later.

Jonathan hums in agreement, turning right and pulling into another aisle. From this angle Steve can see the front of the police station: two officers chat casually near the door, both smoking cigarettes. They step aside when someone exits—a civilian—and relocate their conversation closer to a snowy bush.

Byers drives forward, nearing them closer to the front of the station. Steve can see the civilian walking down the sidewalk more clearly now, brown hair, mustache—

Steve’s heart stops.

He’s pulling up the lock and swinging open the door before his brain even processes what he’s doing. “Steve, what the hell!” he hears Nancy yell before he slams the door shut behind him. His sneakers pound against the asphalt as he stomps, nearly running, and icy wind flaps at his cheeks and through his hair.

Steve’s on the man in less than a minute, hands seizing his coat and spinning him around. The brunette yelps, startled by the sudden attack, and Steve’s eyes are steely as he clutches the taller man's collar. “Was it you?” Steve hisses. “Did you hurt him, was it you?”

“Get off me!” Neil Hargrove yells.

Boots on concrete sound to their right and then the smoking cops have arrived, roaring at Steve to back off. “Hands in the air!” one commands, gun raised.

“Get. Off. Me.,” Neil punctuates with a grunt.

Steve shoves him backward, chest heaving. Then he reels forward, fist charging through the air, and punches the man square in the jaw.

Jonathan and Nancy are shouting somewhere behind him, the cops are scrambling forward, but ultimately it’s two large arms clamping around Steve’s waist and hauling him backward that ends it. He tries to squirm from the grasp, heels dragging on the sidewalk.

“Harrington!” the voice booms in his ear. “Calm the fuck down, now!”

 _Hopper,_ Steve realizes, but he doesn’t let up as he watches Neil dab at the blood on his lip. Hopper spins him around, big hands hard on his biceps, and shakes. “He has nothing to do with this,” the cop growls low, “now stop it before you get yourself or someone else killed.”

Hopper looks over Steve’s shoulders. “I’m very sorry Mr. Hargrove, clearly all of us are in a—put the gun down Callahan, will you?”

The curly haired cop lowers it awkwardly.

“As I was saying, clearly emotions are high. Please forgive Mr. Harrington here—I’ll have a talk with him. In the meantime, Powell, will you escort Mr. Hargrove back to his vehicle?” It's more of a command than a request.

Neil squares his jaw. “It guess it's understandable given the circumstances, son, but you’re lucky I’m not pressing charges,” he says, finger pointed at Steve. Then he nods at the other cop, who joins him down the sidewalk.

Hopper tightens his grip on Steve and drags him toward the door. “C’mon, get inside,” he growls. “You two,” he calls back at Nancy and Jonathan, who stand dumfounded on the asphalt, “wait in reception.”

 

* * *

 

“You want to explain to me what the _hell_ that was?” Hopper hisses once they’re alone in his office.

Steve drags a hand through his hair. “You know that guy’s a piece of shit, Hop—”

“Yes, I know he’s a piece of shit, Steve,” Hopper exhales, “trust me, I wish I could pin this on him, but I’ve just spent the past hour talking to him and he has an alibi.”

Shame trickles down Steve’s chest and collects low in his stomach, turning it over. _They’re going to some fancy resort in Michigan for their anniversary,_ Billy’s words sound over a cigarette.

“Shit,” Steve gasps, dragging both hands over his face. “He and Susan were on vacation.”

Hopper raises his brow. “You knew? Then why'd you hit him?”

“Billy had said—he mentioned it. I wasn’t thinking…I was just so…”

The cop walks over, hovering into Steve’s space. “Listen, Steve. His time will come, but attacking Billy’s dad for something he didn’t do isn’t going to help the situation.”

“I know,” he mumbles.

Hopper’s face softens. He sighs. “What are you even doing here? You should be resting after last night. You look like shit.”

Steve snorts, though there’s no humor to it.

“Steve,” Hopper murmurs, “sit.”

The younger obliges, lowering himself into one of the seats across from Hopper’s desk. The cop takes his place across from him.“I know we didn’t get to talk yesterday. I’m sorry kid, for everything,” he begins. “I know you and Billy had gotten close.”

Steve’s silent, eyes on his lap. _Don't cry._

“Listen, I spoke with Max last night. She said she saw Billy yesterday morning when she got up for school. He seemed upset. She asked for a ride but he refused, so she waited for the bus instead since her parents weren’t there. When she got home around three, he was gone.”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. He feels sick. _Don't cry._

“Did Billy mention anything to you that would make you suspect he was upset about something?”

“No,” he answers. Technically it’s not a lie.

Hopper eyes him, but ultimately he nods. “Okay,” he accepts, sighing.“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

Steve’s heart races. _Don't cry, don’t cry._ “Tuesday. We hung out.”

“Okay,” Hopper nods, scribbling in his notebook. “And on Tuesday he didn’t say anything about taking a trip the next day? Meeting someone? A date? Going shopping? Anything?”

“No. I—," Steve stops, collecting himself. "I don’t know where he was going, okay? But I know he’s missing, I know there was blood and—” he exhales a shaky breath. “I need to know what happened yesterday before you showed up. I need to know what Max told you, I need to know why Jane opened the gate. I need to know what the Upside Down has to do with this, I need to know so I…so we can find him.”

Hopper sighs, dropping his pen. “Alright. I got a call in from traffic patrol around 6:00 PM about a parked car off Wood Road. They said there was blood, so I assume car accident. It’s a quiet night otherwise so I go out. I recognize Billy’s Camaro—but what surprises me is that he’s not there. They’d failed to mention that, of course, the morons.”

The cop pauses, swallowing. “There was a decent amount of blood on the ground, Steve. It was only outside his car, not inside. Not a drop. So either Billy lined his car in cellophane and magically disposed of it, or he was attacked outside. We don’t know why he got out of the car yet. What’s strange is that blood was localized in one area—there’s no sign that he walked away or was dragged or moved. It’s almost as if someone attacked him and then…he disappeared on the spot. Now, it’s possible there’s some kind of human explanation here, but we’ve seen this sort of thing before. And given what Jane said…”

An icy shiver trickles down Steve's spine. He thinks of Barb standing his foyer, the haunting blue light of his pool.

“So you _do_ think he’s in the Upside Down.”

Hopper bites his lip, then leans forward. “Billy leaves his house somewhere between 6:30 AM and 3:00 PM according to Max’s statement. By 6:00 PM he’s missing. That’s a potential maximum of twelve hours unaccounted for, and whatever he’s doing during that time ends in him heading back toward Hawkins and pulling to the side of the road. So we’ve got two lines of possibility here. One: someone attacked Billy and kidnapped him. Or two: we have another monster problem on our hands.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, let’s go over this again.”

The group’s huddled in the Byers’ living room, Hopper standing by the television in full uniform, writing on one of Will’s old painting easels with a giant Crayola marker. Joyce, Will, Jonathan, and Nancy squish on the couch while Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Jane, and Max sit cross legged on the floor. Max had arrived later than the rest after sneaking out her bedroom window, much to Hopper’s dismay— _You should be with your parents right now,_ he’d complained, _they don’t need to think another child’s gone missing._ _I want to help Billy,_ she’d said in response. _I can’t do that there._ Steve sits alone on the armchair.

“Max, you got home from school when?”

“My bus dropped me off at three.”

Hopper draws a ‘3’ on the paper board. “Okay, three. And Billy wasn't home. What happens next.”

“Lucas called a little while later and asked me to come to Will’s for games and dinner. I said I could't come because I couldn’t get a ride—my parents were away on vacation and wouldn’t be back till late, and now Billy was out.”

Hopper nods, rotating his hand in a “next” motion.

“Then at four I got an idea—I know it’s four because I looked at the kitchen clock—I could just skateboard over. It was cold and bit snowy, but I could technically make it.”

“Like you did tonight,” Lucas chimes in.

“Yeah, like tonight,” the redhead answers. “But I remembered how Billy looked that morning and something didn't feel right—I thought maybe I’d look for him first. I couldn’t find him, and it was much colder than I thought so….I went to El’s, which I knew wasn’t far from where I ended up.”

“And what time did you get to our cabin?” Hopper asks.

“Five one five,” Jane answers for Max. 

“Okay, five fifteen,” Hopper echoes, scratching a “5:15” on the board. “Jane, take it away.”

The small brunette sits up straighter. “Max asks for my help. I want to find Billy too but—when I look, I’m in dark.” 

“And what time was that?” Hopper asks. 

Jane shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe five three zero.” Hop nods and adds it to the timeline. 

“What does that mean, El, _the dark?”_ Mike asks, “You saw Will when he was missing—”

“And Barb,” Nancy adds quietly. Steve swallows.

Jane shakes her head. “Never before.”

”It’s okay, kid,” Hopper says. He turns toward the board. “So we know Billy’s gone by around 5:20 by the very latest if Jane couldn’t find him at 5:30,” he explains. “That narrows the timeline a bit. Okay, what’s next.” 

“The gate,” Jane says. “I thought maybe I was in dark because of the gate.” 

“So you thought Billy was in the Upside Down?” Steve asks, sliding forward in his armchair.

Jane turns to face him. “Yes." 

Steve takes in a deep breath, willing his nerves to calm themselves.

“I only thought he’d run off drinking...I didn’t...I got upset, I begged her to open the gate," Max says to the room. "It wasn’t her fault."

Jane slides closer on the carpet, placing one hand over the redhead’s. “Friends help friends.”

"How did you do it?” Lucas asks the pair, “How did you reopen the gate?” 

Max and Jane exchange looks. "We went back to the lab. El broke in using her powers," Max answers.

"Christ," Hopper exhales, sliding a hand over his face. "Alright, what time?" 

"Six," Jane answers as Jim draws. 

"Alright," Hopper says. "So I get the call about Billy's car at the same time Jane and Max break into the closed-down laboratory, and what time do you think you took down the gate, kid?" 

"Six two zero, maybe? I tried again, right after. But still dark," she whispers.

Steve clears his throat. "So now you're not sure if he's there?"

Jane turns her head to him again. She nods. 

"So we know for sure that El opening the gate couldn't have triggered Billy's disappearance," Mike says as Hopper scribbles onto the timeline, "because if Billy was taken by a Demogorgon or a Demodog, or the Mind Flayer, it had to before the gate was reopened."

"Right," Jonathan answers, angling his head to follow Hopper's work. "Unless it wasn't a monster that took him. But that doesn't explain why El couldn't find him, because as we know...uh, life state doesn't matter." 

Dustin raises his hand. “Wait, maybe it's like the Displacer Beast.” 

Hopper arches a brow, turning from the board. “A _what_ now?”

"In DnD the Displacer Beast can bend light,” he responds as if it's common knowledge, "creating an illusion that it's in one place, but really it's somewhere else."

"Why does this always happen?" Hopper grumbles.

Lucas furrows his brows, thinking. "Yeah, but El can't see Billy at all." 

"Right," Dustin continues, "but darkness is just the absence of light. If the Displacer Beast can bend light to make it seem further away, maybe something in the Upside Down can remove light to do the same thing." 

"He's adapting."

The room turns to Will on the couch, who'd been silent the entire time until now. 

"What do you mean, sweetheart?" Joyce asks from beside him.

Will shifts, pulling one sleeve further down his arm. "The Mind Flayer. He knows what El can do, so he's adapting." 

"Shit," Lucas curses. 

Nancy shakes her head, confused. "Wait, I'm missing something. If some monster from that world came over, attacked Billy, and now The Mind Flayer's hiding him from us, how was it able to do all that while the gate was closed?" 

"Why wait for the gate when you've got a backdoor," Dustin murmurs as if he's just figured something out. 

"What?" Max frowns.

Dustin scratches his curls. "Okay, so it's like when you're playing poker and you're dealt your two cards, right? And the flop isn't great and maybe you have one pair. But then on the turn and the river you get like, two great cards. Now you've got a straight flush. You end up winning the round on the unlikeliest of hands, the backdoor. Maybe the Mind Flayer was banking on the flop, but then ended up getting a backdoor." 

"And we've progressed from Dungeons and Dragons to Poker analogies, great," Hopper says. "Anyone want to explain in normal terms what the hell this kid's talking about?"

Mike blinks. "You're saying that the Mind Flayer found another way to open the dimension between the two worlds on some kind of, random chance?" 

"Exactly!" Dustin says. "It's like being trapped in a house and thinking the locked front door is the only way out, but then an open back door magically appears." 

"So...what opened the backdoor?" Nancy asks from the couch. 

Dustin shrugs. "No frickin' clue." 

"Okay, back door, front door—Billy's still missing," Max interrupts. "How are we going to find him in the Upside Down if El can't see him and Will can't control the Mind Flayer? We can't just go in blind." 

"Yes we can," Steve states. "I'll do it." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and commenting. Your words keep me going. :)


	4. Then

 

**Dec. 31st, 1984**

 

 _Let the good times roll,_ The Cars croon as Steve’s record spins, _let them knock you around._

The brunette stands before his bedroom mirror, naked save for the towel snug around his waist. Farrah Fawcett spray in one hand, he combs through his damp bangs with the opposite, sweeping them up and over for added volume. Once finished, he presses down on the nozzle: an aerosol puff stiffens in his roots, its tangy, acidic mist clouding above him before fading into the air. He repeats three more times, once on each side and once in the back, and sets the can onto his dresser.

_Let them leave you up in the air. Let them brush your rock and roll hair._

Steve turns his head back and forth to assess his work. He fluffs out a few pieces in the front then sighs, satisfied enough. “Let the good times roll,” he murmurs half-heartedly along with the chorus before walking toward his closet.

Christie Phillips’ New Year’s Eve party starts at 8:30 PM—a bit early for the _popular kids'_ usual fare, but Steve assumes they want to be drunk by midnight—and he's already late. He hadn't planned to be there on time anyway; showing up that early would seem desperate and weird, especially in light of his recent demotion in social status. While still popular, Steve isn't considered part of the core group anymore, not after he ditched Tommy and Carol for Nancy, got dumped by Nancy for Jonathan Byers, and began hanging around a squadron of middle school nerds in lieu of either pairing. Certainly not after he'd shown up to school with a black eye and mottled skin after his fight with Billy Hargrove. Steve abdicated his throne at Hawkins High a long time ago, but now everyone thinks he'd attempted to reclaim his title by overthrowing the reigning king. Except he'd lost, which paints him as attention-seeking and pathetic. A loser in both senses of the word.

That's why he'd been surprised when Christie, Carol's junior best friend, handed him a flyer before winter break, suggestive smirk curled on her ruby lips. Steve knows the invite was an attempt to make her interest known—she probably thinks she has a chance now given his tarnished reputation and her boost to the top of the hot list after going from an A to a D cup almost overnight. She doesn't. Christie’s always been kind of a bitch, and if Steve’s being honest he hasn’t been interested in sex since Nancy broke up with him. He doesn't know if it's because he still misses her or because casual relationships seem unappealing now. Whatever the reason, he's not attending so he can fuck Christie, and it's not to mend his reputation either. He doesn't give a shit about any of that. He only wants to get drunk and forget about everything—college, his ex-girlfriend, murderous monsters from parallel universes, Barb's death, his absent parents—instead of ringing in the new year alone in his dark, sprawling home.

After multiple outfit changes, Steve settles on a blue sweater and khaki slacks. He slips on socks and shoes, then returns to his mirror to view the ensemble. His hair's dried nicely, that zit on his temple has died down, and the clothes coordinate well. When he glances at the clock and it reads 9:16 PM, he decides it's late enough to head out—he remembers Christie’s house from his middle school bus route and it won't take long to drive there. Following one last look in the mirror, Steve pulls on his jacket, grabs his keys from his nightstand, and leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

Christie's well off—her dad owns a department store in town, if Steve remembers correctly—and while her house isn't as large as his own, it's the biggest in her neighborhood. The brick home pulses with music as Steve pulls up in his Beemer, and the street's so packed that he has to drive a block and a half down the road to find a spot.

It's 9:45 when Steve finally walks through the front doors. Prince belts _let's go crazy_ from blasting speakers and it's fitting: students pack the foyer, laughing and screaming and falling over one another in garish colors, teetering cups of alcohol in hand. Silver tinsel lines the hallway leading into the living room where couches have been rearranged to accommodate a bustling dance floor. Steve spots the punch and beer along the back wall and squeezes by a couple making out to enter the room. He's inching through the crowd when Christie pops out, smile wide on her bright-pink lips.

"Steve!" she exclaims, putting one hand on his forearm. She's wearing a tight chrome dress and her blonde hair's blown out and feathery. "So glad you could make it!"

That attracts the attention of several onlookers, who Steve knows will begin whispering about both his presence at the party and his non existent relationship with Christie. He can picture it now: _Did you see that Steve Harrington showed up? He and Christie are totally an item,_ or better yet, _Steve Harrington's trying to sleep with Christie to get back into the group._

"Hey Christie," Steve smiles politely, shifting a little to squirm from her touch. She doesn't budge; instead, she steps closer into his space, pungent perfume wafting close. She bats her eyelashes and smirks. "Hey yourself," she murmurs, drifting the hand on his forearm to his hip and lower—

"Whoa, okay," Steve laughs awkwardly, pulling her thin arm from him and taking a decisive step to the side. "Sorry I, uh, I'm going to get a beer."

She doesn't catch the hint. “Grab me some punch?" she asks, smiling suggestively.

"Sure," Steve answers reluctantly. He turns and sighs deep.

He worms through the crowd and eventually arrives at the alcohol table. He pulls a Bud Light from the ice bucket and then fills up a cup with punch, bright red liquid pouring slowly from the ladle. Once finished, he takes one drink in each hand and turns back around. _Owner of a Lonely Heart's_ opening guitar riff fills the air as he spots Christie in the crowd—except now Billy Hargrove's beside her, one arm slung around her shoulders. Under his jean jacket he's wearing a half-unbuttoned red shirt, trademark necklace visible over bare skin, and his styled curls hang soft over his forehead and along his neck. His eyes are on Steve, gaze dark and intense.

 _Goddamnit_.

"See, I told you he was getting me a drink," Christie chuckles when Steve arrives, elbowing Billy playfully in the ribs.

Steve hands the cup of punch to Christie. "Here you go," he grinds out, ignoring the other boy as she accepts it with pink manicured nails.

Billy drops his arm from Christie’s shoulders. "Harrington," he greets. "Didn’t think you'd show up."

Steve flashes a glare Billy's way. “Sorry to disappoint."

Christie's eyes dart between them as she takes a sip from her drink. Steve assumes this must be quite the spectacle—known enemies Billy Hargrove and Steve Harrington crossing paths after the latter’s failed coup. _She's probably deciding which one of us she’d rather show off tonight,_ he thinks.

Steve’s not surprised when the junior slinks into Billy’s side and wraps an arm around his waist, fingering a belt loop with her pink nails. “Wanna dance?” she asks him with the same eyelashes she’d given Steve earlier.

_Why settle for the fallen king when the ruling one’s right there._

Two years ago Steve’s ego would’ve been bruised by Christie’s rebuff, but now he welcomes her sudden dismissal—especially if it means it’ll keep Billy Hargrove away from him tonight as well.

Billy glances at Steve before returning his gaze to the shorter blonde beside him. “Sure, sweetheart,” he answers with a cocky smile, slinging an arm back around her shoulders. Steve feels the urge to roll his eyes all the way back into his head.

He’s about to turn around, finally free, when Christie’s eyes catch his own. “Oh, Steve!” she calls as if she’d just remembered his existence. She steps forward and hands him her drink. “Can you hold this?”

Steve blinks down at the cup in his hand.

“Don’t want to spill it on my dress,” she explains.

When he glances up, Billy’s biting back a wry smirk, blue eyes dancing with amusement. “Thanks Steve, you’re a doll,” Christie says before swirling around and rejoining her newly acquired date. Billy sends him one final look before following her onto the dance floor.

Steve exhales deep through his nose, walks back to the alcohol table, and drops Christie’s drink in the trash.

 

* * *

 

After an hour and a half of beer-chugging with members of the basketball team and tedious conversations with underclassmen he’d never met before, Steve finds himself wandering through a sliding glass door into the frigid night air of Christie’s backyard.

The light of the party sets a soft glow over the otherwise dark area. Covered patio furniture sits untouched over cobbled stone and the trimmed grass beyond expands wide and empty before transitioning into woods. It’s too quiet and cold out here for the party’s liking, Steve guesses, but the silent chill is an instant relief over his sweaty skin and ringing ears. He walks to the far right edge of the patio so that he’s not in the door’s direct view, breath visible as he moves.

He’d come to Christie’s party so he wouldn’t be alone on New Year’s Eve, so he could forget about all the crap raging through his skull, but despite the crowded home and ample alcohol Steve feels like he’s accomplished neither. Every interaction he has with his so-called friends, every pat on the back and _sick chug dude,_ every doe-eyed look from girls who think he’s sweet and every seductive smile from the ones who don't—all of it reminds Steve that no one in this goddamn school actually knows him. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit. Steve’s tipsy mind pictures Nancy’s brown eyes peering up at him, angry and tearful and disgusted. _It’s bullshit,_ she’d said. She was right. He’s a bullshit person with bullshit friends and bullshit goals and no amount of beer is going to change that or all the terrible things that have happened—

The sudden _click_ of the sliding door opening and closing pulls Steve from his thoughts. He stands still in his dark spot, hoping the person won’t notice him and will leave once they realize nothing’s happening out here. He’s not so lucky: Steve watches as the cherry end of a cigarette lights in the dark—

_You’ve got to be goddamn kidding me._

Steve instantly recognizes Billy’s profile, his full lips and straight nose illuminated in the dim light. In an attempt to squeeze further back into the shadows, Steve bumps into the covered grill behind him, rattling something loose. A metallic _clang_ sounds through the silent air and Billy whips his head in Steve’s direction, attention piqued.

The blonde nears closer, brows furrowed and cigarette balanced between his frowning lips. He pauses suddenly, pulling the stick from his mouth. “S’that you, Harrington?”

Steve closes his eyes, exhaling a frustrated breath, then steps forward into the light.

Billy sucks from his cigarette before nearing closer. “So explain this to me,” he starts, voice deep, “you come to a party to what—stand alone outside in the cold?” He takes another step, brows tugging together. “Or was the heat inside too much for you?” Another. “Had to take a load off out here?”

Steve rolls his eyes. They’re only about two feet apart now and the blonde’s smoke and cologne wafts into his personal space. “Get out.”

“Get out?” Billy repeats. He frowns, cocking his head in faux contemplation. “Unless my senses deceive me, I believe I’m already outside.”

“You know what I mean, Hargrove. Leave me alone.”

Billy snorts, a roguish smile blooming on his lips before fading into a scowl. “Last time I checked you didn’t own this place.”

“Yeah, and neither do you.”

The blonde raises his brows. “Is this about Christie Phillips?” he asks, thumbing back toward the door. “If you wanted to fuck her—”

“Fuck off,” Steve snaps, moving closer, “you know what this is about.”

Billy matches his step forward. “I do? I’m a little drunk, Harrington, why don’t you refresh my memory,” he whispers, breath hot on Steve’s face.

Steve lets the alcohol get the best of him, liquid courage pulsing in his veins. “Our fight last month.”

Billy pauses, nostrils flaring as he squares his broad shoulders. “You started that and you know it,” he says.

“I— _I_ started that? You pushed me down and trespassed into the house—”

“The house that wasn’t even yours where you were lying about hiding my missing thirteen-year-old step-sister,” Billy counters, voice louder. “I still don’t know what fuck you were doing with her and those kids, and _you_ threw the first punch—”

“You broke in,” Steve retorts, “and you assaulted Lucas Sinclair—”

Billy points a finger toward Steve’s chest. “You don’t know _shit,_ alright? Don’t say shit to me when you don’t even understand the situation.”

“What’s there to understand, Hargrove? That you’re a racist psychopath?”

Billy’s nose flares. He looks like he’s about to snap, jaw taught and neck red. He tosses his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with his boot, and then closes the gap between them so that their noses nearly touch. “Go fuck yourself,” he growls under this breath.

Steve pushes Billy backward. “You want to fight? You want round two? Let’s go. Right now.”

Billy snorts, tongue darting out over a devilish smile. “I like your fire Harrington, but I’m not fighting you.”

“Why?” Steve responds. He knows he shouldn’t egg Billy on, but he’s drunk and he’s angry and it feels good to finally confront one thing in his fucked up life. “Because a little girl scared you?”

The blonde’s eyes rage, but he doesn’t budge. Steve crowds into his space. “Or because you’re afraid you’ll lose?”

That does it—Billy shoves the brunette hard against his shoulders. Steve stumbles backward but doesn’t fall.

Billy smirks, dancing earring sparkling in the moonlight. “Finally learned to plant your feet—”

Steve jolts forward, tackling Billy, and they both slip off the edge of the patio and tumble onto the frozen grass. The impact knocks the air from Steve’s chest, cologne and smoke overloading his brain instead, but then he’s pinning the other boy to the ground, weight settled over Billy’s thighs. He holds him down with one arm and lifts his other, hand curling into a fist.

“Do it,” Billy grunts, dark blonde curls splayed in the grass. “Just fucking do it.”

Steve falters at the words, brown eyes locked on Billy’s blue ones. They goad him with dark intensity, but there’s something else there too—a shivering vulnerability he can’t quite name. Steve inhales through his nose, clenching his fist tight, and he catches Billy flinch before he drops his hand to his side.

The blonde’s lips part in confusion, brows nearing close. They’re both silent as they stare at one another, chests heaving from exertion, foggy breaths mixing in the cold.

The spell’s quickly broken when a siren wails to their right.

Startled, the two boys turn their heads toward the sound. From his position Steve can see down the side of the home into part of the front yard: a police car rolls to a stop out front and two officers exit the vehicle—

“Shit,” Steve curses. He glances back toward the sliding door where the party’s bustling as if nothing’s changed, loud music likely obscuring the police alarm. Then, as if on cue, the music cuts out and the lights flip off, a mixture of screams and hushes sounding from inside.

“Open up!” Steve hears a male voice echo from across the yard, loud thumps resounding against wood. “Nobody leave the premises!”

Steve glances down at Billy, chest pumping, and the blonde’s eyes flash with dread.

Then they’re both scrambling up from the ground and bolting toward the woods.

“Hey, you two!” another voice calls from behind them. Steve’s almost tempted to turn around and look, but a firm grasp on his wrist halts the urge.

 _“Move_ , Harrington!” Billy hisses, dragging him by the arm. Icy air whips through Steve’s hair as he sprints, and soon the pair's racing through the woods, ducking under branches and bounding over uneven roots. They continue for several minutes, the sound of their shoes pounding against damp earth and their lungs pumping out ragged breaths filling the silent forest.

Once the party and cops are long gone, Billy slows them down, hand slipping from its grasp around Steve's wrist. They part and wind to a walk.

Breathing heavily with both hands on his hips, Steve watches as the other boy backs himself against a tree. Billy leans his curls against the bark, eyes closed and long neck exposed as he catches his breath. A delirious smile tugs at his lips, and then he's laughing, eye corners squinty and cheeks red.

The brunette pants, confused. "What? What's so funny?"

Billy blinks his eyes open to a half-lid, gaze on Steve. "Not how I was expecting that to go." He keeps chuckling, and Steve's not sure if it's the exhaustion or the alcohol or both, but his laughter's infectious—he snorts out something like a laugh and a scoff, shaking his head. "Yeah," he mutters in response.

"Where the fuck even are we?" Billy breathes, straightening himself from the tree.

Steve peers through the forest: he has no clue either until he spots a red paneled home in the distance. He remembers it from the bus, all those years ago. "Two neighborhoods back up to this area of woods," he explains. "We ran across toward the other development, so we'll have to loop back to our cars from the east side if we don't want to bump into the cops."

"You hiding a map in your head, Harrington?"

Steve rolls his eyes. "You forget I've lived here my entire life."

"Didn't know that actually," Billy shrugs. He steps forward. "So which way, boy scout?"

Steve nods toward their left.

After a few minutes of silently walking through the woods, Billy clears his throat. "Why'd you stop?"

"What?" Steve questions, startled by the abrupt comment.

Billy sends him a look. He shifts, broad shoulders straightening beneath his jean jacket. "Why'd you chicken out at the last minute?"

"I don't know,” Steve answers truthfully. “You're confusing."

"You didn't hit me because I'm confusing?"

"No, asshole. I mean one minute you don't want to fight, the next you're begging me to hit you—what's with that?"

Billy fishes his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. "Could ask you the same thing,” he begins. “You avoid me in the party, then I bump into you outside and you're suddenly jumping down my throat?"

Steve scowls. "I didn't jump down your throat, I asked you to leave multiple times if I remember correctly."

"Eh," Billy hums, face scrunched as he lights up. He inhales the smoke, lips pursed around the cigarette, then breathes it out. "Don't remember it like that. You were itching for a fight."

“Yeah, it’s so weird that I’d want to fight the guy who beat me up,” Steve deadpans.

“You started—,” Billy groans in frustration, rubbing one hand over his face. “I was upset about a lot of shit. It wasn’t just about you, alright?” 

Steve raises his brows. “So what, you had a bad day and decided to take it out on Lucas and my face?”

“My dad told me to bring back my missing step-sister, and then I find her with you and the kid she’s not supposed to hang out with in a creepy old house—”

"God, Hargrove, I was just babysitting.”

Billy stops in front of Steve, blocking him. Moonlight slots between the trees and illuminates his clear eyes. “Don’t lie to me. I know something weird is going on with you and those dweebs. And I’m gonna figure out what you’re doing sooner or later,” he threatens, voice low. 

“Have fun figuring out Dungeons and Dragons then,” Steve quips, brushing past Billy as he continues walking. 

“Harrington,” Billy growls, turning to follow. “What are you hiding?”

"I’m not hiding anything. And why the hell would I tell you if I was?” 

Billy glares. “If I find out you’re—”

"Why don’t you just cut the crap, alright?” Steve interrupts, stopping to face him. “You've been set on terrorizing those kids since you moved here. Lucas Sinclair is a good person, so leave him the hell alone. And me—I don’t know what it is with me, if you’re threatened or just hate me or whatever, but I'm not interested in this alpha male shit. If you want to be _king_ of the school, fuck Christie Phillips if you haven't already, then go right ahead. I don't care. Just leave them alone."

The blonde shifts, cigarette long forgotten between his fingers. He looks as if he wants to say something, but he doesn't; instead, he swallows silently, taught jaw flaring. Then: "I haven't bothered them since that night," he says softly, "and I won't again, on one condition." 

Steve blinks. "Really?"

"You deaf or something?"

"Okay, okay. What's the condition?"

Billy steps closer. "You tell me what the hell you were doing in that house." 

Steve glowers. "How is that fair?"

"If you were really doing nothing then why won't you tell me?" 

"Just drop it, Hargrove," Steve mutters, turning and continuing his walk forward.

"Max syringed me with a tranquilizer," Billy calls, catching up, "where'd you even get that? You into some kind of drugs?"

"What? No," Steve snaps. "That's not—"

"Then what is it? Sex shit? S'that why Nancy dumped you for Byers, you like 'em younger?" 

Steve quickens his pace, old leaves crunching beneath his feet. "No! Jesus Christ!"

Billy follows. "Then what is it?" 

"I can't tell you!" 

_Fuck. Stupid, that was stupid—_

Billy draws his brows together. "You _can't_ tell me? What does that mean?" 

"Nothing," Steve grumbles. They're marching side by side now, the forest clearing rapidly appearing ahead. The night chill seeps through Steve's jacket and settles into his skin, into his bones, and a quaking shiver travels down his spine. 

"Doesn't sound like nothing. You protecting someone?" 

Steve snorts. "Trust me, not at all." 

"Then—"

"Billy, please just forget it," Steve says. He ducks beneath a low branch as they cross the edge of the forest. 

"I can't forget it. It's all I think about."

Steve turns his gaze to the other boy, taken aback by his words: he's finally inhaling from his forgotten cigarette, hand shaking as he does. When he exhales the smoke clouds the space between them. "Fuckin' freezing," he adds with a mutter.

"You're not in Cali anymore, Toto," Steve says. They've passed the threshold and travel through someone's side yard to reach the sidewalk. "Maybe you should invest in winter clothes. Or at least button up." 

Billy glances at him, smirk growing on his lips. "Can't sacrifice my style for a little chill, Harrington. Not all of us are preppies like you." 

"Preppy? I'm not preppy." 

The blonde chokes out a laugh. "You serious?" 

"What? I'm—well what are you then? Metal?"

Billy grins, rakish and wide. "Surprised you even know what metal is." 

"I know what metal is. I know music." 

"Wow, you have a great way with words." 

"Shut up." 

They stop at the sidewalk. Christie's house is several blocks away, cops and party-goers long gone in the distance, but Steve's car isn't far. "Where did you park?" Steve asks. He doesn't know why he even cares. 

"I didn't. I walked." 

Steve blinks. "You _what?"_

"Technically I shouldn't be out right now. Old man doesn't want me drinking. My car's too loud, so I snuck out." 

"Why the hell did you follow me all the way back here? Why didn't you just walk home when we ran?" 

Billy shrugs, leaning his head to the side. His silver earring dangles. "Thought you'd appreciate my company," he smirks.

"Oh my god," Steve groans. "How long did it take?" 

"What?" 

"How long did it take to walk over to Christie's?"

"An hour." 

"A— _an hour_?" 

"That's what I said," Billy answers.

Steve sighs, running a hand over his deflated hair. "Jesus Christ," he mutters. He glances at Billy, then down the street where he can see his car parked, quiet and undisturbed. "Goddamnit," he curses. He exhales a deep breath through his nose. "C'mon." 

Billy raises a brow. "What?"

Steve rolls his eyes as he turns. "I'll drive you." 

The brunette walks across the street. When he doesn't sense Billy behind him, he turns around: the other boy's still standing on the opposite sidewalk, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he narrows his eyes, skeptical.

"If you're gonna come, do it now," Steve calls, careful not to be too loud. "Otherwise I don't give a shit." 

Billy bites his lip, considering the proposal. 

He follows.

When they get to the car, Billy slides into the passenger seat as Steve closes the driver side door. His scent swirls into the cabin, smoky and musky, and Steve can't help but stare at how foreign he seems there, all jean and curls and stretched out over the seat like he already owns it. The boy's eyes travel around the car and he hums. "Never been in a Beemer before. You must be richer than I thought." 

"Whatever, Hargrove. Just shut up and I'll get you home." 

"Why are you doing this?" Billy asks after, voice low.

Steve sighs as he moves to insert his keys into the ignition. "Don't know," he grumbles. He's been doing a lot of things he doesn't understand lately, like adopting a team of middle schoolers and becoming their chauffeur. Maybe that's why he offered. 

Billy slouches in his seat, hips nearing the edge of the cushion. "Happy New Year, by the way." 

Steve frowns. He looks at Billy, then down to his watch.

_12:04 AM._

_Goddamnit._

Steve turns his keys, revving up the car. The BMW rumbles to life and he shifts into drive, jaw tight.

 

* * *

 

 

**January 1st, 1985**

 

 

They arrive at Billy's neighborhood fifteen minutes later. The drive was surprisingly silent; Billy had opted to look out the window instead of start up any more uncomfortable conversations, much to Steve's relief. The blonde doesn't speak until they pull onto his street and he murmurs, "Park here. Don't want to be seen." 

Steve obliges; he pulls to the side of the road and shifts into park. Billy's already opening the door and stepping onto the concrete. Once exited, he rests one arm on the open door and ducks inside. His red shirt is tight around his waist and his necklace dangles from his bare neck. "Thanks for the ride, pretty boy." 

The brunette blames the warmth beneath his cheeks on residual alcohol poisoning. He rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Don't make a habit out of it." 

Billy smirks. "I'll take that as a challenge." He licks his lips, then: "I haven't forgotten either—you're gonna tell me what happened that night." 

Steve scoffs. "In your dreams, Hargrove." 

"We'll see," Billy says before removing himself from the car. Steve isn't sure if it's a threat or a promise.

Once the other boy closes the door, walking off into the dark night, Steve lowers his head to the steering wheel. 

He's not sure how his attempt to get drunk and forget his problems turned into a night with Billy Hargrove, from escaping police to nearly spilling government secrets to driving the other teen home as if they were actually friends.

"Happy fucking new year," Steve breathes before driving home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave your thoughts below! :)


	5. Now

 

**December 13th, 1985**

 

“No, no, no—we’re not doing that.”

The Byers’ living room erupts with conflicting discussions: the boys complain from the floor, brows scrunched and hands waving, Steve protests as Nancy and Jonathan argue against him, and Joyce grinds out a warning _Jim._

“But I can do this, Hop,” Steve manages to call above the cacophony.

Dustin points a wild finger his way. “I’ve seen it! I’ve seen him go to town on those bastards!”

“Jim, it’s quarter after twelve in the morning—”

“This is stupid, Steve,” Nancy chimes in, dark brows pierced in anger, “you’re not—”

Hopper squeezes his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose, then drops his hand in frustration. “Alright—will you just—everyone just STOP!”

The room goes silent.

“Thank you,” the cop breathes. “First of all, Dustin—watch the language. Second, we’re not building any light sabers and that’s final.”

The curly brunette raises his arms. “But—”

 _“Final,_ Henderson.”

Dustin drops his hands to his side, exasperated. “Told you,” Max grumbles to his right, which earns her a glare in response.

“As I’ve said like _three_ times,” Steve begins, “I don’t need a light saber. I have my bat—“

“Yeah, but with a laser blade you’d be doubly powerful!” Dustin whines.

Lucas elbows his friend. “Just drop it, dude.”

“It doesn’t matter what you’re using, Steve,” Nancy says, “we’re not going in there without a plan. We don’t know how the backdoor was opened without El—”

“Yeah, you’re right. We don’t know anything. But we also don’t have time to wait until we do, Billy doesn’t have time—”

“Okay, everyone calm down,” Hopper interrupts. “Nancy and Max are right. We can’t go in without a strategy for finding Billy.”

Steve gapes, anger bubbling upward and threatening to spill over into tears. “Are you serious? The longer we wait—”

 _“And,”_ the cop continues with a warning look, “Steve’s right too. Time’s of the essence.”

Mike frowns from the carpet. “So we can’t go in right now, but we have to go in right now? What kind of strategy is that?” he complains.

“Let me finish,” Hopper says. He exhales and shifts in place. “We still have holes in our timeline,” he continues, gesturing toward the easel beside him. “But as we’ve determined tonight, Billy’s somewhere in the Upside Down. Obviously the rest of the force can’t know this, but they’ll stay on the case and hopefully find evidence that will help point us in the right direction.

“Now, we know Jane can’t find Billy. Thankfully Will’s lost his connection to the Mind Flayer, but that means he can’t find him either. If we go in through the gate with bats and light blades or whatever, sure, maybe we’d make it a little while, but there’s no way all of us would survive how long it’d take to canvas the entire town.”

Steve puts a hand out. “I’m willing to take that risk. I’m not asking anyone else to come with me.”

“No,” Hopper orders. “You’re not getting yourself killed. We’re all in this together.”

“But you’re saying we can’t go in without a plan, but there’s no way we can make a plan because no one can direct us. We don’t have a choice, Hop. Let me go in first: if Billy was taken where you found his car, maybe he'll be there in the Upside Down. I'll scout the area—"

"If the Mind Flayer's going out of his way to hide Billy's location, then he won't be there. He knows that's the first place we'll look. What I'm saying is that we need to find someone else who can help direct us. And there’s only one other person who can.”

“And who's that?” Steve questions, frustrated.

“Sam Owens.”

“Dr. Owens?” Joyce repeats from the couch. “I thought you hadn’t heard from him since Jane’s adoption.”

“I haven’t,” Hopper responds, “but I can get in touch with him.”

Jonathan leans forward. “And you think he’d help us? How do you know he won’t get the government involved? They’d be more interested in the backdoor than actually finding Billy.”

“He’s the only person connected to the lab that I trust. And we’re going to have to get them involved if we don’t want this to turn into a suicide mission.”

“The only reason the government closed the lab was because their hand was forced by Barb’s story," Nancy adds, "if they find out something opened another portal, they're going to want back in."

“So let them back in,” Steve snaps. “They can help find Billy, then we’ll screw them over later.”

“But what if they don’t care about Billy? What if they shut us out once they learn about the backdoor?” Lucas asks.

“Dr. Owens isn’t a bad person,” Will peeps from the couch. The room turns to watch him. “I think he’ll listen to Hopper.”

“Not like Papa,” Jane adds with a nod.

Joyce bites her bottom lip, sparing a look at Will beside her. She nods. “You’re right. Dr. Owens can help us. Jim, you should reach out now.” She slides forward on the couch to address the remainder of the room. “The rest of you are going to bed.”

“But you already called our parents and they said we could sleep over,” Mike whines.

“Yes, but it’s still a school night. Max, I’ll drive you home before your parents wake up and realize you’ve been gone.”

The redhead deflates, shoulders dropping in disappointment, but she doesn’t argue—Steve can tell she knows Joyce is right. At another time he’d find it funny, the contrast of Mrs. Byers mothering the kids to get to sleep while enabling another’s runaway habits.

“Alright, you heard her,” Hopper orders the rest of the party, “get going. I’ll be on the phone.”

“I’ll find some sleeping bags,” Jonathan says after the cop leaves the room and Joyce begins pulling on her jacket. “Will, why don’t you lend the guys some pajamas.”

The small teen nods. “C’mon, they’re in my room.”

After Joyce and Max leave, the living room’s empty save for Steve and Nancy. The girl walks over to where he sits and places a soft hand on his shoulder. “You should get home too. Sleep a bit,” she murmurs.

Steve shakes his head. “Not tired. I want to hear what Owens says.”

“Who knows how long they’ll be talking for, you can see Hopper tomor—”

As if on cue, Hopper walks into the living room, one hand rubbing at his brow. “He didn’t answer.”

“What?” Steve says, voice cracking. Nancy pulls her hand from his shoulder. “Did you try calling again?”

“I called three times. Left a message on the last.”

Steve clenches his jaw. “Did you at least explain the situation, tell him that this is _urgent_ —”

“He’d said it was a safe line, but to always keep things vague as there’s always a possibility of interference. He’ll know it’s important. I told him something happened and to call back immediately.”

“What if he doesn’t?" Steve pushes. "What if he doesn’t use that line anymore?”

“He’ll call back.”

“How do you know? Why can’t we just go find him—do you know where he lives? Is he still in the area?”

Hopper shakes his head. “No, not anymore. I think he’s in Washington.”

“Washington D.C.? Hell, Hopper, he could have changed his number—”

“Hey,” Nancy coaxes, hand returned to his shoulder. “If Hopper says he’ll call back, he will. He’s probably sleeping. Which you should do too—you’ve had a long day.”

“Wheeler’s right,” Hopper agrees. “Come down to the station in the morning and I’ll give you an update.”

He sighs. “I don’t know.”

“If you want I’m sure Mrs. Byers would be more than happy to let you stay here again.”

Steve considers Nancy’s proposal—he doesn’t want to be alone, not in his house—but ultimately decides against it. He doesn’t want to put out the Byers family more than he already has today. Plus, he could use a hot shower and a change of clothes.

“No, that’s okay. I should go home,” Steve breathes. He steps up from the couch and heads toward the foyer. “I’ll see you first thing in the morning,” he says to Hopper before grabbing his coat.

The cop nods. “And kid?”

The brunette turns his head, waiting by the door as he pulls his keys from his pocket.

“Get some rest.”

 

* * *

 

Steve arrives home at nearly one in the morning.

He’s surprised to find a dim light emanating from the house as he parks in the driveway. When he unlocks the front door, he sees his mother sitting at the kitchen table: she’s lounging across two chairs in a silk robe, back resting against one and legs draped across the other, and her hair’s tied up in a purple scrunchie. An empty bottle of Cabernet sits beside her on the table, hand holding its last remnants by the stem of a wine glass.

“Steven, was that you?” she drawls.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Steve exhales as he walks into the kitchen. He pauses before the table. “What are you doing here?”

“Having a drink, isn’t it obvious?”

“Looks like more than one,” Steve answers. He runs a hand through his hair, impatient. “I’m going to bed.”

His mother pulls her legs from the second chair and sits up straight. She leans forward, brows drawn. “What happened to your head?”

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Steve lies.

“Have you been partying all this time?”

Steve flares his nose. “Partying? That’s where you think I’ve been?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know? It’s not like you tell your mother anything.”

Steve scoffs. “I wonder why that is.”

“Fine, fine,” Eileen says, waving a hand. “First your father, now you. I can handle it. Go ahead up.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve sighs. “You wanna know? I’ve been out all day because my friend’s missing. Happy?”

His mother stiffens. “Missing? What do you mean? Which friend?”

Steve swallows over the lump that’s appeared in his throat. “Billy Hargrove,” he manages as nausea claws at his insides. “And we don't know what it means yet.”

“The handsome one with that…,” she waves a few fingers near her ear.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, voice low.

Eileen _tsks_ around the edge of her wine glass. She sips, then places it on the table. “I knew he was trouble, ones like him always are. But I’m sure he’ll show up, honey,” she adds as if Billy’s a t-shirt Steve couldn’t find in the wash.

“Right. I’m sure,” Steve grinds out, willing his anger in check. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Okay honey,” his mother says in a haze, grabbing for the wine glass once again. “If you need anything—”

“I don’t,” Steve snaps before heading for the stairs.

 

* * *

 

In the bathroom, Steve peels off his sweater as he waits for the shower to heat up. He drops the woolen item to the tiled floor, then moves to unbutton his jeans. He kicks them and his underwear off too, now naked before the fogging mirror. He stares at himself: a purpling bump swells near his hairline, his eyes are bloodshot, and light brown fuzz dusts over his lip and chin. Steve swallows, jaw taught, then rips his eyes away from the sight.

Once inside, the shower beats hot and soothing against his back, and he stands unmoving under its warmth for several minutes. When the heat prickles from calming to painful he shifts, reluctantly beginning his usual routine. He lathers his body in soap and rinses. He washes his face with cleanser. He shaves to avoid the mirror again, not caring if he ends up with a nick or two. After shampooing his hair, he watches the foam trail down his skin and swirl around the drain below him. It finally hits—the overwhelming, numbing exhaustion—and he closes his eyes under the shower's warm spray.

He breathes in and out, once, twice, and then his chest tightens. The tiled walls feel like they're nearing closer, his breaths become shaky, and all attempts to smother the quivering in his lips become futile. A moment later he's sobbing, body wracking quietly under the disguise of pattering water, tears blending with the stream drifting over his face. A wave of rage lights his muscles and he punches the wall on instinct, knuckles stinging with pain at the impact. He drops his forehead to the cool tile and cries, deep and painful and consuming—he cries until his throat's raw and his eyes feel swollen.

As his chest slows to a normal rhythm, it occurs to Steve that he's been in the shower for close to an hour. He turns around and winds off the faucet, then steps out onto the mat, water dripping from his wet body and trickling onto the floor. He pulls a clean towel from the rack across from him, then loops it around his waist.

The tears don't come again until he's in bed, feet drawn up as he curls into himself beneath cold sheets. He stares out his window into the backyard, pillow wet beneath his eyes, heart aching in his shivering chest, and then he finally succumbs to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck,” Steve curses, bolting upward. He blinks again at the clock on his beside table: _1:14 PM._ He hadn’t set an alarm, he'd wanted to get to the station early— _“Fuck,_ he repeats, scrambling through his sheets and from his bed.

He rips open his bureau drawers and flings out a sweater, jeans, and socks, then pulls them onto his body haphazardly. He doesn't even spare a glance in the mirror before toeing on his sneakers and darting out the door.

When he arrives at the station, he finds the nearest open spot and pulls into it immediately. He shifts his Beemer into park and whips out the door, nearly hitting the Honda next to him. One of the officers who'd attempted to stop his ill-conceived attack yesterday spots him as he marches toward the entrance. "Hey, you," the cop calls, but Steve ignores him, striding past and through the front doors.

The department bustles with commotion that on any normal day would be unheard of: two state troopers walk by as Florence the secretary carries a stack of files through the room, a group of policemen discuss a cork board pinned with papers in the far corner, officers at desks talk on their respective phones, voices clambering over one another, and a phone at an unmanned table shrills above it all. "Oh," the secretary chirps, dropping her papers onto another desk before answering. "Hawkins Police Department, how may I help you?"

Steve's tempted to walk through the area and see what information he can spot before being kicked out, but he remembers his real mission and continues his march down the hallway toward Hopper's office. When he reaches his destination, he pulls open the door without preamble and walks inside. "Hop," he breathes, "sorry I—"

The brunette stops when he realizes Hopper isn't alone. A grey-haired man wearing a suit turns in the chair facing the chief's desk, raising a brow at Steve.

"Mr. Harrington," Hopper greets. "I see you still haven't learned how to knock."

"I overslept," he blurts in response.

"Sam," Hopper continues. "This is Steve Harrington. Steve, Dr. Sam Owens."

Steve freezes, swallowing. “You’re…you’re here?”

Dr. Owens stands from his chair, “I flew in not too long ago, yes.” He steps forward and offers his hand, which Steve shakes reluctantly, still in a daze. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course. Before the lab was terminated I kept tabs on all those who’d been asked to sign an NDA.”

Steve nods. “Right.”

“I’ve been filling Dr. Owens in for the past half hour,” Hopper says. “Why don’t you take a seat,” he adds, gesturing toward the untaken chair beside the doctor’s. Steve complies and sits down, the older man following suit.

“So you know about Billy?” Steve asks.

Owens nods. “I’m sorry to hear about your friend.”

“I’d just finished explaining everything when you walked in,” Hopper says to Steve.

The brunette nods, then rubs his sweaty palms over his jean-clad knees. “Do you have any idea what could be happening?” he asks the scientist, eyes wide. “Do you know how we can find Billy?”

The scientist exhales, shaking his head slightly. “All of this should be impossible,” he breathes, morose. “Jane sealed the gate, and it was her power that had opened the connection between worlds initially. To suppose there’s been another breach, or that one of the creatures beyond has learned her skill...it’s unprecedented.”

Steve swallows. “What about your agency or whatever? Haven’t they been doing research?”

Owens takes a deep breath. “Well, yes. But I haven’t been privy to all of it.”

“Why not?” Steve asks.

The doctor glances at Hopper, then returns his gaze to Steve. “I no longer work on the project.”

“What?” Steve says. He looks at Hopper. “Did you about know this?”

The cop leans forward onto his elbows. “Just found out before you got here, kid.”

“I was relieved of my duties several months after the lab was shut down,” Owens explains. “Apparently some were...less than pleased with my team’s handling of the events that took place here. Ms. Wheeler’s exposure of Barbara Holland's case was the last straw, if you will. I knew too much for them to let me go completely, so now I'm with the Department of Agriculture.”

“Agriculture? Like plants?” Steve asks.

The scientist blinks. “Partly, yes.”

“So you don’t know anything then.”

“I didn’t say that,” Owen responds. “I learned a few... _troubling_ pieces of information before I was locked out.”

Hopper frowns. “What kind of information?”

The doctor purses his lips, then sighs. “This is highly classified, I shouldn’t—technically my being here is against protocol—“  
  
“Every minute we debate is another minute Billy’s stuck alone in the Upside Down,” Steve interjects, voice firm. He sounds older to his own ears, and even Hopper perks up, surprised. “Are you really going to let him suffer like that? Do what the people before you wouldn’t for Will Byers.”

Owens watches him, then swallows. He takes a breath. “The Upside Down doesn’t exist solely beneath Hawkins, Indiana. It’s presence has been detected by our researchers in several other states and countries throughout the world.”

Hopper’s brows rise. “You’re telling me this thing has gone _global?”_

“Likely it’s been there for quite some time. Perhaps since the formation of our planet, perhaps after. It wasn’t until Jane’s contact two years ago that the fabric between our two universes was opened. Hawkins was the first crossover, that we know of at least. When she closed the gate, we thought we were safe—not just from those creatures, but from the threat of other countries harnessing their power for military research, weaponry—“

“So the U.S. government will want to close the gate as soon as possible once they find out, is what you’re saying,” Hopper inserts.

Owens gives a curt nod. “Yes.”

“We can’t let that happen,” Steve says. “Not before we find Billy.”

“I want to help your friend,” the doctor responds, “but I also have a duty to this country—off the program or not. If this knowledge falls into the wrong hands, more innocent lives could be at stake. If the gate stays open for too long, there's a possibility the fissure could ripple into other areas.”

Hopper sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Shit."

“So we find him, bring him back, then close the gate,” Steve says. “Jane she...she wasn’t able to find him there, she said it’s completely dark when she tries to search for him, like he's covered in shadow.”

Owens shifts. “Yes, Jim mentioned that. I don’t remember reading that she’d had that issue before in her files.”

"She hadn't," Hopper says. "Not before now." 

"We think the Mind Flayer—that thing that was inside Will last year—is hiding him from her. That he's controlling light somehow to obscure where he's located," Steve adds.

The doctor exhales, then leans back in the wooden chair. "While Will Byers was under my care, I was performing research on the parasite that'd infected him, this _Mind Flayer_ as you call it. From my observations it became quite clear that the creature was highly intelligent: not only was it able to use the Byers boy as a physical host, but it was also able to access and control his mind—his thoughts, his memories, his feelings, his personality. The Mind Flayer commands its subjects with a sort of hive mentality, and through Will Byers we learned that its biology did not exempt lifeforms from our own universe. We also know that creatures native to the parallel universe thrive in darkness, and that light visible to the human eye rarely exists in a natural state in their environment. They shrink from it, and will be injured or harmed if exposed to a high intensity of that particular spectrum, particularly heat."

"So," Owens breathes, pausing momentarily, "I see two possible explanations. One, the Mind Flayer, as you've supposed, can somehow control light. Light is both a particle and a wave, which would mean these creatures possibly have the ability to manipulate photons with their minds, causing this sort of...strange shadow play Jane describes. Two, you must remember that Jane isn't physically _with_ those she searches for, she finds them through psychic connection. It's possible the creature has uncovered a way to block her from reaching its hosts given what'd happened with Will last time. In that sense, it's really not _controlling_ light, only Jane's perception of it. I have no way of being sure if either is correct with no additional data to reference."

Hopper straightens in his seat, elbows sliding back from the center of his desk. "What about the fact that Billy was taken before Jane opened the gate? One of the kids, Dustin, keeps calling it a backdoor—something about another portal opening on a random chance."

Owens nods. "Yes, that distresses me as well. It's possible Jane's attempt to find Billy bridged another connection between our worlds, but as you'd mentioned earlier Billy disappeared before she'd tried to reach him. If he wasn't in the Upside Down, she would've been able to find him regardless of his location or condition. It's possible the Mind Flayer learned something during its time within Will's mind that allowed it to create a portal from its end, or, even more troubling: something else opened it entirely. But what scares me more than the  _how_ is my next question: why?" 

"Why what?" Steve asks.

"Why did the Mind Flayer take Billy, and why is it hiding him from us?" 

Steve swallows, heart racing. 

"For the same reason those things took Will Byers and Barbara Holland—it's hungry, it wants to kill us, take your pick," Hopper says.

The doctor shakes his head. "Several years ago I would have agreed with you. Some of the lesser beings in that universe behave like many animals of our own, that's true, but this Mind Flayer...we know its capable of complex thought. This isn't just pure survival instinct." 

"He wants us to go through the gate," Steve murmurs. "And he's hiding Billy because he wants us to get lost in there." 

Dr. Owens nods. "That's my fear as well."  

"So Billy's what, bait?" Hopper asks. 

"It's possible, but I can't know for sure," the doctor answers. "Again, I need more information."

Steve runs a hand through his unstyled hair. "All of this science...does any of it actually help us _find_ Billy? Because if not, I'm going in. Today." 

The grey-haired man turns his seat, body shifting to face the teenager beside him. "It's only a matter of time before the government detects that the gate's been reopened," he says, sparing a glance toward Hopper as well. "When that happens, they'll make sure they close it—and for good. But we have an advantage: they don't know I'm here, and they don't have men on the ground now that the lab's been quarantined. Their offsite detection methods are mediocre at best. We probably have a week before men in suits begin knocking down your door. So at most we have a week to find your friend, but given our knowledge of the species and their previous hosts...we'll want to get to him much sooner than that. But we have to be aware of what we're facing first. Our documentation of research at the laboratory was seized upon its closure, but I think I'd be able to pull new data from the vestige machinery if I can get it up and running. That would give me a better idea of what's exactly going on with the Mind Flayer, especially if its luring us to enter. If I can understand how it's hiding Billy, I'll be able to determine a way to combat those effects so we can figure out where he's been taken."

Steve remembers reading stories in the newspaper two years ago about the missing Byers boy, hearing gossip about how Joyce Byers had lost her mind searching for him over that fateful week. He thinks back to yesterday on the couch, the woman leaning forward, eyes steady and sure, promising that  _we'll find him._ Just like they found Will.

"He's not dead, I know it," Steve says. He huffs out a humorless breath. "If anyone could survive this thing, it's Billy. But he needs our help." 

Owens nods. "I believe you. Once we can narrow his location, I won't stop you from going inside." 

"So what's next?" Hopper asks, looking between them.

The doctor straightens in his chair, jaw twitching. "We go back to the lab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always. Comments help me write faster. : )


	6. Then

 

**January 2nd, 1985**

 

 

Hawkins High hums with chatter as students walk through the hallway, their steps stilted and moods prickly on the first day back after winter break. The homeroom bell is bound to ring soon, Steve knows, but even that can’t quicken his reluctant pace toward his locker.  He's not looking forward to his return to perpetual boredom, pointless conversations, and the dread of getting called upon by teachers when he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Eventually, he makes his way to the hallway where his locker’s located, squeezing by a group of gangly freshmen and some nerdy chick with a huge backpack. After he turns right, he spots Tina, Carol, Vicki, and Nicole, huddled as they gossip. Their eyes catch Steve as he passes them and he hears their words hush into whispers. 

It’s as he's turning his locker’s padlock that Tina appears to his left, one pink bomber jacket clad arm perched on her hip. “I heard you made it out of Christie’s party before things went south,” she says around a piece of gum.

Steve glances at her as he pulls open his locker. “Yeah, so?”

The brunette cocks her head, eyes narrowing. “It’s mental what happened, don’t you think?”

“Sure,” Steve responds, now confused by her tone. He reaches inside his locker for his English textbook and slides it into his book bag. 

Tina nears closer. “Tommy and Christie were arrested you know, since they purchased and served the alcohol. Carol’s real gutted about it.” 

Steve looks over his shoulder and spots the group of girls. Nicole has one arm around Carol’s shoulder, who he just now notices has been crying. They both glare at him. “And Christie was suspended for a month. Her parents are totally pissed,” he hears Tina say behind him. “I think someone tipped the police off.”

He turns back to Tina. “Sure, I guess. Maybe the neighbors? It was pretty loud—”

“Or maybe it was somebody else,” the brunette taunts as she moves closer, “somebody who was at the party.”

Brows furrowing, Steve frowns. “What exactly are you implying, Tina?”

“You know exactly what I’m implying, _Steve_.”

He shakes his head as reaches for his next textbook. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”

“Oh please,” she responds. “I know dumb isn’t an act for you usually but I can tell you’re hiding something now.”

“What, you think _I_ called the cops on the party?” Steve says. “Why would I do that?”

Tina shrugs, chocolate curls brushing against her shoulder. “Maybe you wanted revenge on the group now that you’re not the center of attention. Or on Christie for turning you down for Billy Hargrove.”

Steve tightens his jaw, nose flaring for a second before he paints himself with a cool facade. He snorts. “I don’t give a shit about any of that.”

“Oh, you don’t? Then why’d Vicki see you leave an hour before midnight? Where’d you go?”

As if on cue, a leather-clad arm knocks around his shoulder, bumping him slightly into the lockers. Billy’s familiar scent burns Steve’s nostrils as warmth sears into his left side. “He was with me.”

Steve blinks at the boy currently slinging an arm around him. This close he can see shades of green in Billy’s blue eyes and each stubble peppering above his upper lip, he can smell the tangy hairspray frozen into his sandy curls and a minty whiff of the gum he must’ve been chewing earlier. He’s too shocked to push him off.

Tina’s brows raise. “What?”

“Did I stutter? We left early to get some real alcohol. That baby shit at the party sucked ass. Harrington couldn’t have called the cops because I would’ve noticed him stopping off somewhere. By the time we got back with the booze, we saw the cops and ran.”

The brunette huffs, gaze roving over the pair. “So what, you two hang out all of a sudden?”

Billy unfurls a mischievous grin, glancing at Steve before addressing Tina. “Yeah, we made up like big boys. We’re friends now, isn’t that right Steve?”

Steve gapes, still processing his current situation. His gaze flicks to Billy, who flashes him a prodding look in response. He’s tempted to punch the guy straight in the nose, but when he looks at Tina he clears his throat and gives a curt nod. “Yeah, we’re cool.”

Tina appraises them, skeptical, then shrugs. “Must have been some loser underclassman then.”

“Was probably a neighbor, like Harrington said,” Billy says. “Music was loud as shit.” Suddenly the blonde’s demeanor shifts, arm sliding from Steve’s back as he slinks forward, flirtysmirk blooming on his full lips. “Don’t worry your little head over it, sweetheart,” he purrs, voice deeper. “Now why don’t you head back to your friends? Seems like they need you,” he adds, an impatient undercurrent beneath his tone.

The girl’s cheeks pinken and Steve nearly snorts. He’s almost amused at how pathetic it is, Tina falling for Billy’s clear bullshit, but then he remembers how he’d used to do the same thing and it’s not so funny anymore. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Tina responds. “See you around Billy. Steve.” She gives them a parting nod then walks away.

Once she’s gone, Steve turns to face Billy, furious. “What the _hell_ was that— _friends?_ What is _—_ ”

 _“Stop,_ Harrington,” Billy hisses, eyes fiery. He peeks at the group of girls behind Steve, gesturing subtly with his head. “You really gonna screw this up after I just covered your ass?” he whispers.

 _“Covered?”_ Steve growls, but when Billy’s eyes flash a warning he glances over his shoulder and sees the girls staring, clearly shocked and confused as to what Tina must’ve told them. He gives them a polite smile, lips pressed tight, then turns his head back around. He softens his posture as to not call further suspicion to their conversation.

“Listen, you did not _cover_ for me because there was nothing _to_ cover,” Steve says. “I didn’t call the fucking cops.”

Billy shrugs a shoulder beneath his leather jacket. He frowns. “I know. But once these people make their mind up, might as well be true.”

Steve pauses, surprised by the other’s frank statement. His words strike a pang of guilt through his stomach—he used to be on the other end of the rumor mill, starting or flaming them whenever he was angry or bored.

“Plus,” Billy continues, leaning a hand beside Steve’s open locker, “now that you owe me, you get to tell me what happened that night.”

Anger flaring, Steve steps forward. “I don’t owe you shit, Hargrove.”

“Easy, pretty boy,” Billy murmurs, “the entire hallway’s staring at us. Unless you want the school to think _King Steve’s_ still trying to fight me.”

Steve glances to his left. A group of wide-eyed sophomores quickly turn their heads away, one even pretending to type into his calculator instead. Steve exhales out of his nose, sighing, then turns to grab his copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ from his locker. “And we’re not _friends_ now just because I drove you home,” he mutters as he drops it into his bag, attempting to seem nonchalant to their audience. “We’re never going to be friends.”

Billy raises a brow. “You know, you’re pretty judgmental for a guy who’s currently hanging out with a bunch of middle school dweebs.”

Steve shuts his locker. “Yeah, well those dweebs didn’t deck my face, so.”

Something dark flickers over Billy's expression. “Thought we already went over that.”

“No, not really,” Steve says, turning around and walking down the hall.

Billy follows. “Relax, Harrington. I was just playing it up for the crowd. I’m not looking to sing _Kumbaya_ and braid each other’s hair. But I’m also not giving up until I know what happened at the Byers’ house.” 

“Why do you care so much, Hargrove?” Steve asks as the walk down the hallway, students double taking as they realize it’s _Steve Harrington and Billy Hargrove_ walking in tandem.

“I know you’re hiding something wrong about that place. I can feel it,” he says low. “I told you it’s all I think about.”

“Yeah, well then maybe you should take up a new hobby. I hear knitting is fun.”

The first bell rings then, loud and shrill over the clatter of closing lockers. Steve glances at Billy. “Have to get to English,” he mutters.

“This isn’t over, Harrington,” Billy whispers.

The brunette rolls his eyes, then turns around.

“See you at practice!” Billy calls from behind him as Steve walks away.

 

* * *

 

Steve used to love fourth period lunch for two reasons: one, it allowed him to copy homework for most of his remaining classes and two, because Nancy was there. Now, as he walks into the boisterous cafeteria, plate of meatloaf and peas in hand, he hates it. One, because Nancy and Jonathan are here somewhere and two, because he’s ostracized himself from everyone he’d sit with otherwise. 

He glances at the table he used to frequent with Nancy—the _popular_ table—and spots a few members of his team as well as Vicki and Nicole. He wants to avoid the latter at all costs, but the table’s too full for him even if he didn’t. Steve settles for a seat at the edge of the only table that’s vacant enough, which is typically reserved for the druggies and other troublemakers who barely attend school. Steve tells himself he doesn’t give a shit if people stare or gossip, but as he chews his fourth bite of meatloaf embarrassment begins to heat his cheeks, which quickly turns into self loathing.

_See what happens when you take the bullshit away? You’re nothing._

Steve’s jolted from his hateful reverie when a small figure appears before him. He blinks, confused, then his heart jumps. “Nancy,” he breathes.

The brunette takes a seat across from him slowly, then looks at him with wide eyes. She’s wearing a thermal with a yellow sweater on top and matching clips that hold back one side of her short hair. It’s the first time she’s approached him after they’d broken up and the first time he’s seen her since church—she looks beautiful, radiant like fucking sunshine. Steve feels something sharp and painful tug in his chest and suddenly he wishes he’d skipped lunch altogether.

“Hey,” she murmurs.

Steve raises his brows, heart running in his chest. He clears his throat. “Uh, what’s up?”

She gives a soft, almost pitiful smile and it does nothing to help Steve’s self-loathing situation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—if you’re busy.”

“I’m not. Busy, I mean.”

Nancy clears her throat. Her eyes flick downward, then off to the side into the distance. “Listen, you can totally say no if this is weird for you, but…would you want to eat with me and Jonathan?”

Steve blanches.

His ex sighs, leaning forward. Her eyes are concerned. “Steve, there’s a guy sitting to your right stabbing each of his peas with a knife and eating them off of it one by one. You don’t…”

“What, belong here? Look around Nancy, it’d be weird if I sat down at any of these tables. I’m fine, really. I’m sure by next period everyone will be talking about how this is the new ‘cool’ table and I’ll have plenty of proper-utensil lunch mates to chat with tomorrow.”

Nancy gives him a look he’s all too familiar with, the one that says _c’mon, I see right through you._ “We don’t mind, really. I’d like for you to sit with us. We’re over there,” she points. Steve follows and sees Jonathan at a table in the far right corner, one that’s frequently used by the normal honor roll kids as opposed to the more intense _nerds,_ who pile together two tables over.

Steve sighs as he forks at a piece of meatloaf. “Nance, I appreciate the gesture, but I’d rather people talk about me sitting here than about me eating with my ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend that she left me for just because she feels guilty.”

Nancy’s brown eyes go soft, brows knit gently together. “Steve, I—”

“Hey,” Steve interjects. “I said it was okay and I meant it.”

Nancy swallows. She nods curtly. “Yeah. Okay.”

An awkward silence fills the air as no one speaks, then Nancy takes a deep breath. “I just want you to know that I was wrong for how I ended things and I’m so sorry. I still care about you and I’d like for us to stay friends.”

Steve blinks.

“And,” she breathes, brows going high, “if you do sit with us, I think people talking about you, me, and Jonathan being friends would still be less weird than you and Billy Hargrove being friends.”

Steve nearly chokes. “What—where did you hear that?” he blurts.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Nancy replies sheepishly. “Tina’s been telling people you two hang out now, is that true?”

“Not true,” Steve grunts, stabbing his meatloaf with his fork. Maybe he does belong at this table after all.

“So why…?”

Steve rubs his forehead with one hand. “It’s a long story, Nance. One I’d rather not think about ever again.”

That earns him a raised brow. “Should I be concerned? Mike told me about what happened at Jonathan’s. I didn’t want to believe the rumors, but after he said something—”

“We fought, I lost, that’s that.”

Nancy sighs. “I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“I can handle a few punches,” he says, “it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Steve,” Nancy breathes, brows knit. He knows she’s remembering his fight with Jonathan—he’d say he didn’t mean to guilt trip her but that’d be a lie.

“I’m serious,” Steve continues, brows raised. “I’m okay, really.”

Nancy pauses, eyeing him skeptically, then nods. “Okay,” she says. Then she slides out from the table bench and stands. “If you change your mind, you’re welcome to join us.”

Steve nods.

“Well…see you later Steve,” she says.

“Yeah, see ya.”

Nancy smiles awkwardly, lips pressed together, then turns around and heads back to the honor table. Steve lets out the breath he’s been holding in and drops his eyes to his plate, fork prodding few peas.

“They’re pretty grody, man,” knife boy says over to his right as he chews the food in question. “Wouldn’t eat them if I were you.”

Steve looks at the kid down the table, frowning awkwardly with raised brows. “Uh, yeah, thanks for the advice.”

Knife boy nods, then returns to his stabbing.

Steve rubs a hand over his face and counts the minutes before the period ends.

 

* * *

  

In attempt to ease his senior year schedule, Steve chose Shop as his second semester elective last year. Nancy tried to dissuade him back then, arguing that Econ or Latin would look far better on his college applications, but Steve knew he had neither the smarts nor the attention span for them—especially during last period. Plus, he knew he could use an easy A and figured making birdhouses wouldn’t be all that hard.

Steve walks into his new class a few minutes before the bell. Inside, the teacher’s desk—Mr. Motts’, according to his schedule slip—sits at the head of the classroom, and in the back there’s a woodcutter and some other machinery. Four large work tables with two stools placed on each side fill the center of the room, several students already occupying them. Steve recognizes Ally Minakis, that weird girl from his History class who carries around a burlap sack, Corey Gaines, the track runner who’d been kicked off the team after getting busted for drunk driving last summer, and Janet Bright, the punk chick with a bleached crew cut. A handful of other students Steve doesn’t know, mostly underclassmen, also sprinkle across the room. 

Last year he’d hoped at least one person from his social circle would end up in his class, but it seems his hopes were futile. Yet, given his current situation he’s thankful no one relevant is here to gossip about him. _Maybe this is my circle now,_ Steve thinks. _The rejects and fuck-ups._

Steve takes an open seat at Corey’s table, sitting on an empty stool next to a kid he doesn’t recognize. He smiles awkwardly as he sits. Neither acknowledges him. 

A few more young students file in, none of which Steve knows, and suddenly he’s beginning to regret not listening to Nancy’s advice. Easy A or not, he already feels pathetic in a mostly underclassmen period. A moment later Mr. Motts walks in the room as the bell rings, shutting the door behind him—he’s a heavy seat man with a scratchy grey beard, but there’s something warm about him, almost like he’s a cross between a lumberjack and Santa Claus. Steve’s seen him around school before, but he never knew what subject he taught. The man shuffles toward his desk and picks up a sheet of paper, glancing around the room.

“Welcome to seventh period Shop. I’m Mr. Motts, but hopefully you know that already.”

Suddenly the door jerks open, a late student walking in—

Steve’s stomach plummets.  _Oh no._

Billy Hargrove moseys into the room, holding only one notebook and stinking of cigarettes. When his gaze finds Steve his expression shifts, eyes gleaming.

“Glad you could make it,” Mr. Motts greets Billy sarcastically, brow raised. “Take a seat.”

Steve’s relieved that his table’s filled—the only silver lining in undoubtedly the worst elective decision of his high school career—and watches reluctantly as Billy slips into a seat at the table diagonal from him. The blonde lounges on the stool, legs kicked out as he perches his elbows on the tabletop behind him. His eyes travel to Steve’s immediately and he tilts his head backward, tongue darting out to wet his lips. It reminds Steve of that day in church, when he’d—

“First let’s get to seating arrangements,” Motts continues. “We’ll go with alphabetical order so I can check roll call at the same time. Tell me if you have any nicknames.”

_Fucking hell._

“Okay, table one we have Lloyd Abrams, Janet Bright, Mark Butler, and John Easton.” The four students move to the table one by one as their name is called, Mr. Motts checking off his list. John departs the seat by Steve’s side, leaving it empty.

“Table two,” Mr. Motts begins, gesturing to where Steve sits, “Corey Gaines, William Hargrove, Steve Harrington, and Alexandra Minakis.”

“Billy,” calls the blonde as he stands from his seat. He immediately walks over to the empty stool beside Steve and drops down, smoke and cologne wafting close. Ally peeps her name from the other side of the room, far more polite than her predecessor, and takes the now-empty seat next to Corey, burlap sack in tow.

“Ally and Billy, noted,” Mr. Motts says as he scribbles. He continues reading the remaining names until the entire class sits in their appropriate spots. Once finished, the heavier man sets the paper down on his desk. “Okay then,” he starts again, “A few ground rules. No usage of the machinery without my specific instruction. All tools are to be put back in their respective places before the end of the period. Assignments must be finished on time or your grade is automatically knocked down by ten points. Before we get to your projects, we’ll take the first two weeks to learn the machinery basics, safety, all that—”

Billy sidles into Steve’s space, leaning closer so that their biceps nearly brush. “Hola, _amigo,”_ he whispers.

Steve flashes him a glare.

“Funny how things work out, man,” he adds, voice inching louder. “Looks like we’ll be spending some more quality time together.”

“Shut up, Billy,” Steve whispers.

Mr. Motts clears his throat, raising his brow at the two. “Is there a problem over there?”

Steve wants to say _yes, please remove me from the roster_ but Billy beats him to it: “No, just asking Steve here for a pen.”

The teacher eyes them skeptically and Steve huffs out a sigh, leaning down to his book bag to fish out a Bic from the side pocket. The teacher returns to his lecture as Steve sits up, pen in hand. He slides the item over to Billy with narrowed eyes, their hands bumping in the process.

“Thanks,” the blonde smirks, smug.

Steve rolls his eyes. 

The period continues, Mr. Motts finishing his introductory lecture and moving on to discuss various tools and machines in the room. Steve tries his best to pay attention and ignore Billy, he really does, but the boy’s smoky scent is a constant reminder of his presence. He wishes he had a cigarette of his own right now.

Steve doesn’t have any other classes with Billy—he’s fairly certain they’re in the same course levels but during different periods—and since they’re both seniors he thought he never would. Clearly he was wrong. Two hours of basketball practice a day was already too much Billy for Steve to handle—adding another 45 minutes of close quarters may just tip him over the edge.

_So much for my relaxing seventh period._

As Mr. Motts opens a drawer of hammers, Steve glances over at Billy’s notebook. He’s only scribbled down three things: _Jan 2_ , _Shop,_ and _Mr. Applesauce._ Steve almost snorts, but he catches himself and flicks his gaze upward instead. Billy’s watching the teacher, brows gently tugged together and full lips frowning slightly, Steve’s pen hanging between them as if it’s an unlit cigarette. The other boy must sense Steve’s gaze because he glances his way, brown and blue catching each other. Steve looks away quickly and then Billy’s pulling the pen from his mouth and raising his hand. “Motts,” he calls across the room, interrupting the teacher.

“Yes?” he instructor responds, brows raised and a little taken back by the sudden intrusion.

Billy drops his hand. “So we gonna learn anything useful in this class? Or s’it just gonna be like making dollhouses and shit.”

A few students chuckle in response. Steve wants to be annoyed boy’s brashness, but his behavior isn’t all too far off from his own a few years ago, back when he’d been purposefully insolent during class discussions to cover up the fact that he didn’t understand anything that was going on. A year ago he’d have laughed too, maybe even joined in.

Mr. Motts raises a brow. “And what exactly do you consider useful…Billy, was it?”

Billy shrugs. “Not dollhouses.”

Another round of chuckles.

The teacher smirks. “Let me ask, do you drive a car?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you live in a house?

“Yeah?”

“Is there furniture in your house?”

“Yeah, and?” 

“Do you consider those things…useful, as you put it?”

Billy shifts, jaw clenching.

“I only ask because in order to create those things you need to have a certain skill set,” Mr. Motts continues. “Carpenters, engineers, blacksmiths, architects, you name it—they’re all skilled in industrial arts. In this class you’ll learn how to take theory you learn in others—mathematics, physics, design—and put it into action. Action that results in tangible things. A dollhouse may not be useful to you, per se, but the building mechanics are based on the same principles that you’d need to build a real one. Those are the kinds of things you’ll learn in my class.” 

Steve’s surprised to see Billy’s temperament shift, almost as if what the teacher said affected him. It reminds him of Christmas Day in church, when he’d caught the blonde watching the communion procession earnestly. The look is gone in an instant, however, and Billy grins, cheeky and wide. He slips the pen back into his mouth and chews. “As long as I’m not making any girly shit,” he says around it.

More chuckles.

Mr. Motts sighs, head shaking in vague exasperation, then returns to his previous lecture about hammers.

When the period ends, Billy stands, collecting his notebook, and hands Steve back his pen. “Thanks for the loan,” he teases.

“Keep it,” Steve mutters as he pulls on his bag and makes a beeline for the door.

He’s barely five steps outside the classroom when Billy’s already beside him, jogging to catch up. “So Motts is sorta a hardass, huh?” he says.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who acted like an ass.”

“Really?” Billy says, brows raised. “That bothered you? Don’t tell me _King Steve_ didn’t pick on a teacher or two in his heyday.”

“Why are you still talking to me?” Steve exhales.

Billy smiles menacingly. “Why Steve, because there’s so many exciting things to talk about! Like, for example, why you and the nerds needed a baseball bat jammed with nails that night.”

“Rats.”

The blonde furrows his brows. _“Rats?”_

“It’s an old house,” Steve shrugs.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.”

Steve sighs, running a hand through his bangs. “Let’s just get to practice, okay?”

Billy flares his nose, lips pursed, but then slackens. “Fine.”

 

* * *

 

Practice is brutal.

Steve’s huffing and drenched with sweat by the time Coach blows the final whistle, exhausted from the intense activity after a break of lounging around and drinking beer. He immediately heads to the showers once they finish to wash off before heading home.

He’s rinsing his hair when Jeff, Zack, and Billy pad into his stall, circling around the center in their towels. Jeff and Zack ignore Steve’s presence, too caught up in some conversation about _Miami Vice,_ but Billy’s eyes find his quickly. Steve looks away and doesn’t say a word as the other boy fills the spot beside him and slips off his towel.

After a moment Steve glances over: Billy’s standing fully beneath the shower’s spray, eyes closed as the water drenches his darkened curls. When he opens his eyes to grab the soap Steve flicks his gaze away again. He feels Billy’s eyes on him but he doesn’t look.

“When’s it come back though?” Jeff says.

“I think the fourth,” Zack answers.

“Rad.”

The two boys finish rinsing off then head out, leaving Billy and Steve alone in the stall. It’s silent for a few minutes before Billy speaks. “I could give you some pointers, you know.” 

Steve looks over to the boy, who’s now facing him. “You could use some work on your dribbling. And your defense.”

“Don’t want your help,” Steve mutters as he lathers his chest with soap.

“Aw, don’t be that way, man,” Billy says, leaning against the center pole. “You can’t help that your training sucked. My program in Cali was so much better than this shithole’s.”

“If your old school was so good, then why’d you leave?”

Billy tenses, then straightens from the pole.

Steve snorts. “What, you can ask all the questions but you can’t take them?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Finally seems like we’re on the same page, then.”

Billy doesn’t speak or move for a moment, then he walks back under the spray of his shower head. “I said I wouldn’t bother those kids,” he says quietly, “And I haven’t.”

Steve looks at him. “And what, you expect a reward? Would you like a sticker?”

Billy’s jaw tenses. “I’ve tried asking Max about that night. She won’t fess up, and just threatens me with cryptic shit.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t threaten you if you weren’t so terrible to her and her friends.”

“I can’t change the past, Harrington.” 

Visions of red spray paint, broken camera parts, and bloody asphalt flash through Steve’s mind. “Yeah well, you could at least apologize.”

Billy raises his brows. “Is that what you want? Me to apologize for winning our fight?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. I’m talking about Lucas and Max. All the kids—they’re terrified of you. Is that the kind of person you want to be?”

Billy doesn’t respond.

Steve switches off his water and grabs his towel, wrapping it around his waist. “Sometimes you have to do things just because they’re right.”

Then he walks out, leaving Billy alone under the spray.

 

* * *

  

 

**January 16th, 1985**

 

 

_“You’re out of touch, I’m out of time,”_ Steve murmurs with Hall  & Oates on the radio as he drives. Dustin’s going on about something that happened during the party’s D&D game last night in the passenger seat.

“Hey, are you even paying attention?” the curly brunette asks.

Steve frowns, nodding. “Yeah uh, you were talking about the thing with the dwarf or whatever.”

“Steve,” Dustin whines, “It wasn’t a dwarf, it was a halfling. They’re different. I swear I’ve explained this before.”

“What’s the difference again?”

Dustin drags a hand over his face. He leans his head back against the seat. “We’re going to have to get more hands on,” he says to himself.

Steve raises a brow. “Why does that sound bad?”

“I’m saying you’ll have to play a game with us,” Dustin explains.

“Whoa, I don’t know about that buddy.”

“Oh come on, we’re all friends now, right? Are you just gonna drive us around places? Or are you actually gonna hang out?”

Steve sighs as he makes the turn into the middle school parking lot.

“I could tell my mom you’re babysitting so you can get some cash out of it,” Dustin adds as if he’s just come up with a great new idea.

Steve furrows his brows. “I’m not going to hang out with you just so I’ll get paid. I’m not that much of an asshole.”

“So you’ll come next time then?”

“Fine,” Steve sighs. “But I’ll watch, I’m not playing.”

“Trust me, once you start watching you’ll want to play.”

Steve gives him a skeptical look. He pulls up to the middle school entrance and shifts into park. “See you later, kid,” he says, extending a low fist.

Dustin smiles. “Later,” he replies as he bumps it with his own.

 

* * *

 

Seventh period comes quickly. 

Steve walks into Shop and slips into his seat, dropping his bag to the floor. Billy follows not too long after and silently takes his place beside him.

The blonde hasn’t been chatty since their conversation in the shower two weeks ago. Steve’s relieved the guy seems to have backed off for the moment, but he can’t help but feel anxious about what's coming next. It’s one thing to ignore Billy’s stares in the hallway or concentrate on the playing the game instead of Billy’s manhandling during practice, but it’s another entirely to sit next to him silently for 45 straight minutes and not feel on edge. Steve feels as if he’s in the calm before the storm, the quiet before the hunter strikes their prey.

Motts enters the room after the bell rings and heads toward the tool wall once the class settles down. “Now that you’ve gone through safety and the basics, today we’ll be moving on to your first warm up project: the box. You have today and tomorrow to complete it. Remember— _double check your measurements before cutting._ Technicality is 90% of the grade on this one.”

Steve spends the first half of the period measuring and cutting his wood. When he goes to assemble the pieces, he realizes he must have miscalculated something—one side won’t fit, which means he’ll have to go back to the woodcutter and sever off a piece. If he goes back there, Mr. Motts will know Steve messed up and didn’t follow the instructions. He doesn’t think he’d penalize him for it if the final box came out right, but he’d look like an idiot in front of him and everyone else, in front of Billy who’d probably start taunting him again—

“You didn’t measure that one correctly,” comes Billy’s voice, low. His tone isn’t accusatory or teasing; rather, it’s calm and observant. Steve looks over at him then—his eyes widen as Billy slides closer into his space, reaching over his arm to pull the errant piece from Steve’s grasp. Their fingers brush briefly and Steve wonders if this is it, the moment Billy strikes. He waits for a menacing grin or condescending comment, but neither come. 

Billy inspects the piece, flipping it over in his hands. He glances at Steve quickly then places the wooden slab down by his own half-finished box. He takes one of his unscrewed pieces and slides it into Steve’s workspace. “Mine’ll fit.” 

Steve blinks, stomach flipping. “What?” 

Billy gives him a look, then leans forward. “Take mine,” he murmurs. Then he’s spinning around, grabbing Steve’s piece, and walking off toward the woodcutter.

“Everything okay over there?” Mr. Motts perks up from his desk.

“Messed this one up,” Billy says, lifting Steve’s piece.

The teacher crosses his arms. “That’s why I said to _double check the measurements._ Be more careful next time, it’ll save you the extra steps.”

“Sorry Motts, wasn’t paying attention. Can’t stop thinking about this girl I screwed last night.”

The class erupts in giggles. Janet Bright actually cackles.

“That’s enough, Mr. Hargrove,”Mr. Motts sighs. “Cut the wood and get back to your seat.”

Steve watches as Billy obliges, still mildly shocked by the whole thing, and then looks back down to his own station. He reassembles his pieces with Billy’s new one.

This time they fit perfectly.

 

* * *

 

After practice, Steve showers and changes back into his regular clothing. He pulls on his winter coat and buttons it all the way up to his neck—it’d started snowing earlier in the day and he knows he’s going to freeze walking to his car, especially with damp hair.

As he heads toward the exit, Steve sees Billy near the door, wet hair soaking into his jean jacket as he digs into his back pocket for his cigarettes. Steve jogs over to him, catching up.

“Billy.” 

The blonde glances at him briefly. “What,” he says as he places a cigarette in his mouth. He walks forward and pulls open the front doors. Cold, snowy wind gusts into the entryway and Billy walks through, Steve following behind.

Billy’s bare hand shivers as he lights up under the canopy. It’s dark out, but the streetlamp ahead sets the area in a dim glow. Steve jams his hands into his coat pockets.

“What was that about today,” he asks once Billy takes his first drag. “In Shop.”

Billy shrugs, looking ahead. “Couldn’t stand watching you fuck up such a simple task. Was giving me second hand embarrassment.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Come on, Billy. Why’d you really do it? If you think I’m gonna tell you what happened just because—”

 _“Did I ask?_ ” Billy snaps. He tosses his cigarette onto the ground and storms off.

“Billy!” Steve calls, but the other doesn’t turn around. “Goddamnit,” he sighs before marching into the dark, snowy parking lot after him.

“So what then?” he continues once he’s caught up. The wind whips harsh and cold over his cheeks. “You just decided to be nice out of no where? I’m not dumb. You’re always saying one thing but meaning the other, making fun of me or taunting me. What do you want?”

Billy huffs out a hollow laugh.

“What, Billy?” Steve says, voice louder. “You want me to owe you, is that it? Well you know what, you’re the one that owes me.”

The other boy stops in his tracks then, both only a few feet from his Camaro. “You trying to fight again, Harrington?” he says over the wind, cheeks red. “Go ahead, take your shot. Since I _owe_ you.”

Steve steps forward. “You’re the one that came after me, Billy. You’ve been after me since day one. Why?”

Billy flares his nose, jaw taught, then moves to walk around Steve and to his car.

“No Billy,” Steve says, stepping in front of him and blocking his path. “Tell me why. Tell me why you hate me _so_ fucking much. Tell me what I did to you. Tell me why you lost it that night—”

 _"You know_ why. My step sister went missing and my dad was fucking jumping down my throat, telling me to go out and find her, and where do I do that? At the Byers’ creepy shack with _you_ —”

Steve crowds closer. “You’re a liar,” he says, quickly losing control of his composure. “You couldn’t _wait_ to put me down that night. You’ve always had it out for me. So why is that, Billy? Why do you hate me?” There’s a lump in his throat and he feels his lips begin to quiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the cold. “At the _very least_ tell me why, Billy. Explain why you’re so obsessed with hurting me, humiliating me, and making me feel like a piece of _shit.”_

Exhaling, Steve comes down from his rant, embarrassment setting in as he realizes just how emotional he’d gotten. Billy’s still in front of him, lips parted and eyes wide. They glisten under the pale streetlight and he looks so _raw_ that it makes Steve want to bolt.

“Never mind, forget it,” Steve mumbles, turning away.

“I’m sorry.”

Steve freezes, then turns back around.

Billy hasn’t moved. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For all of it.”

Steve parts his mouth to speak, but he can’t find any words. Then Billy’s digging into his jacket pocket and walking past Steve to his car.

“Billy,” Steve breathes.

He opens the door then pauses, flashing Steve a look. “Don’t worry, I don’t want you to tell me anything,” he snaps. Then he gets in the car, slams the door, and drives off into the snowy night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the midseason premiere of Miami Vice actually did air on January 4th, 1985. 
> 
> Comments help me write faster ;)


	7. Now

 

**December 14th, 1985**

 

It’s one in the morning and Steve’s untangling a clump of wires.

“No, not that one—I need a yellow tip,” Owens says with a wave of his hand.

He, Steve, and Hopper had broken into the lab around ten o’clock, once traffic had stagnated on the nearby roads and it'd gotten dark enough for them to enter unseen. Hopper had asked Jane which door she’d unlocked, so within several minutes they’d passed from the empty parking lot into the abandoned building. Wielding a flashlight, a bat, and a gun respectively, Owens, Steve, and Hopper had journeyed toward one of the main control rooms attached to observation deck where the gate had been quarantined, checking the hallways for any escaped monsters on the way. None appeared.

When they finally entered the control room, Steve had stared through the observation glass at the gate below. His heart had nearly stopped at the sight of the massive, tumor-like growth oozing from the wall, rotten and spindly like a giant spiderweb made of inky sludge. It looked as if it were an infected wound that’d been cauterized, then reopened by an A-bomb. He’d been shocked, terrified, and humbled at the same time—both by the towering monstrosity and the thought of Jane’s role in closing and reopening it.

After, Owens had explained how he’d been doing research in that very room before the Department of Energy shut down the lab. He and his team had been gathering data from the lab next door and inputting their findings into a system of monitor terminals, all of which connected to the central mainframe computer against the back wall. While the DOE had seized all physical documents and samples from the laboratory before its closure, the mainframe computer had been deemed too costly to remove from the premises. Instead, they’d burned all the information onto remote disks and cleared the mainframe’s hard drive, rendering the machinery useless. However, as Owens had explained in Hopper’s office earlier, he thought there could be a way to retrieve the data from the mainframe if they could get it up and running again, especially since the DOE had left the now defunct terminals in place.

The room had been left in disarray: the computer terminals and mainframe block had been completely detached from one another, various heaps of electrical wires piling across the room like snake nests. Owens wasn’t a programmer nor had he been the one to set up the system, but he knew enough to begin reassembling the wires. They’d spent the past two hours untangling and trial-and-error inputting—it was like when Steve put together his Beta HiFi only ten thousand times worse—and it wasn’t until the last half hour or so that they’d begun to pick up a rhythm, Owens orchestrating as Steve and Hopper retrieved the appropriate wires. They’re nearly finished now, but they still haven’t been able to get the mainframe up and running, which in turn should reboot the terminals.

Hopper sighs from across the room as he attempts to pull two thicker chords from a knot. “You sure there’s not some kind of manual lying around here?”

Owens pokes his head out from where he’s bent behind the mainframe, sending him a dry look.

“Alright, just asking,” Hopper huffs.

Steve bends down and picks up another tangled wire. “Wait, this one has a yellow end,” he calls.

The doctor perks up, leaving his station to approach the teen. He squints down at the mass in his hand and then pulls the entire thing from his grasp. “This will do,” he mutters before heading back to the mainframe.

As Steve’s untangling the last of his wires, Hopper walks over, weary eyes settling over him from above. “How are you doing?” he asks.

Steve doesn’t look up from where his hands work at a knot. “Fine, only have a few left.”

Hopper sighs. “That’s not what I meant, kid. It’s late, if you want me to take you home—”

“No,” Steve cuts in, dark eyes meeting Hopper's. “I’m staying.”

The cop's brows tug together, but then he nods. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Listen, Steve—”

A loud thunk from the hallway jolts them from their conversation. Owens steps out from behind the mainframe, glancing at them with trepidation.

Steve whips his head around to the observation window and stares at the gate, dread clawing at his stomach and panic rising in his chest. It looks unchanged.

“You think…?” Hopper says to Owens, mirroring Steve's thoughts.

“There’s been no sign of any creatures crossing over as of yet, but…” Owens trails off, eyes locked on the door ahead.

“You two, stay back,” Hopper whispers, pulling his gun from its holster and pointing it ahead. He takes a step forward and Steve’s already lunging for his nailed bat.

The cop flashes him a glare. “I said _back,_ Harrington.”

Steve obliges, but lifts the bat anyway, grasp tight and ready to swing.

Hopper’s last few steps to the door have Steve’s pulse on overdrive, anticipation and horror building with each pump of his heart, memories of beasts flashing through his head, and then Hopper's nudging open the door with his gun and—

Nothing.

The cop slowly edges through the doorway, steady arms holding the gun forward.

A series of shuffling noises sound somewhere outside and Steve’s chest pounds. He's about to damn Hopper's orders to hell and run forward when a voice sounds: “Please don’t shoot!”

Hopper stiffens, brows furrowing as he stares into the dark hall.

 _“Dustin!”_ another voice hisses.

Owens marches forward with his flashlight, Steve trailing behind, and shines it through the doorway. The three men stare into the light and down toward the end of the hall. It’s empty until Dustin, eyes squinted and both hands raised in surrender, sheepishly steps out from behind the corner. Jane, Max, Lucas, Mike, and Will follow suit afterward, various levels of frustration and shame on their young faces.

Hopper drops his arms. “Are you kidding me?”

“What the hell are you guys doing here!” Steve yelps, heart still racing.

“We’re sorry,” Dustin blurts, “Eleven told Mike you were asking about the lab, and then Mike radioed us, and we all wanted to see what you were up to—”

Mike knees Dustin in the back of the leg. _“Shut up.”_

Hopper glares at Jane. “I told you to stay put tonight, that I’d take care of it—”

“Friends help friends,” Jane snaps, jaw tight and nose flared in defiance.

“Christ, did you all sneak out?” Steve breathes. “Even Will?”

The small teen's cheeks pink, but he nods. He flicks his gaze to Owens.

Hopper runs a hand over his hair. “Joyce is gonna kill me."

“Let’s all discuss this inside, shall we?” Owens says then, extending an arm to wave them over.

The group files into the control room, Hopper shutting the door behind them. The man stands with his arms crossed as he faces the party, frowning. "What were you thinking? It's one in the morning. If your parents wake up—"

"They won't, okay?" Mike whines. "We'll go back before sunrise, we promise. They'll never even know we left. And if they do wake up for some reason we have a back up plan."

"Oh?" Hopper questions, brows raised with sarcasm. "And what would that be?"

"It's Saturday. We all left notes on our bed saying we went out for a bike ride with the party," Dustin explains. "They can punish us later if they want, but it'll buy us time.”

“And what if they wake up now? You're gonna tell them you went on a bike ride in the middle of the night?” Steve questions, brows high and eyes wild.

“It was a last minute idea, okay! We didn’t have a lot of options!”

Hopper shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face. "I need some goddamn coffee," he grumbles.

"Will," comes Owens' voice, "are you sure you want to be here? It's understandable if you don't."

"I'm okay," the boy responds. "I don't feel him anymore."

Owens nods. "It's good to see you well, son," he says gently, resting a hand on Will's shoulder, "but this place it's...we don't know enough yet. I don't want to put you—any of you," he adds, glancing at the group, "at risk. It's best that Chief takes you all home."

"He's right guys," Steve says, "you can't be here, it's not safe. We have it handled."

"No," Max growls, arms crossed and brows squeezed. "We're not going anywhere. We want to help find Billy, and if something happens we have El."

Jane nods in agreement. She glances out the observation glass and stares at the gate, then looks back to the group. "I'm strong."

"Stronger than any of you," Mike tacks on. "No offense."

Owens turns to Hopper, brows raised. The cop grinds his jaw, then sighs. "Fine, but if any of you as much as step in the wrong direction your asses are back home, got it?"

The party nods vigorously.

"Alright," Hopper breathes. "Now start untangling the rest of these wires."

It's not long before the group finishes unbinding the remaining chords. Owens collects them and plugs their ends into the last open ports, everything now connected in one ecosystem. Once finished, he takes a deep breath and wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “Okay,” he breathes as he moves toward a large switch on the mainframe. “Here we go.”

Owens flips the switch and suddenly the giant machinery groans to life, a surging hum echoing throughout the room as little white lights blink on along the wire ports.

The group emits a collection of gasps, cheers, and sighs. Hopper pats the doctor on the back, relief apparent in his expression.

Owens nods, then turns around to face the terminals. The monitors still look blank even though the mainframe is turned on. The man walks over to one of them, brows furrowed, and begins typing into the keyboard. Nothing happens.

“This can’t be right,” he hums.

Steve frowns. “Wait, what’s happening. Why aren’t those working?”

Owens leans behind the terminal to check the wires. “The mainframe is on, everything’s been plugged in correctly, I don't understand,” he mumbles.

Max steps forward. “So the main computer's working, but these other ones aren’t? Why do you need them anyway?”

“We have a brain but no eyes,” Dustin says as if he’s just realized the gravity of the situation. “Without the monitors, we can’t actually view any of the data on the mainframe.”

Owens slides down the row of terminals and tries turning each on, but none respond. He steps back, running a hand through his grey hair.

Steve swallows, heart racing. “Are they broken?”

“The DOE must have fried them.”

“Okay, can’t we just get another one?” Steve continues, chest racing. “My dad has a personal computer in his home office, one of those new Macintoshes or whatever. I can steal it—”

“No, no,” Owens says shaking his head. “The processing power of a single computer like that wouldn’t be able to handle the mainframe. These were built specifically for this system.” He sighs, expression morose. “Even if we could figure out a way to hook up other computers with monitors, we’d need at least a dozen to not fry them instantly.”

“So let’s find more,” Mike says, “we can’t just give up now.”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “And where are we supposed to find a bunch of computers? Are we gonna ransack a RadioShack?”

“The arcade.”

The group turns to look at Dustin. His brown eyes dance, excited.

“Are you serious right now?” Steve snaps, hands on his hips. “We’re not going to the goddamn arcade!”

“No, no, listen. The consoles are just computers, right? There’s got to be forty in there, and they’re already set up. If we wipe them, then reboot them with the mainframe, it could work!”

Mike steps forward. “The Palace doesn’t open until nine, but Keith will probably get there around eight thirty. It’s still early enough that we could break in and he’d never know.”

"Yeah!” Dustin agrees. He turns toward Doctor Owens, eyes hopeful and wide. “Do you think that could work?”

They grey-haired man shakes his head. “To even test that we'd have to move the mainframe, which would require manpower, time, and expertise we do not have. There’s a reason the DOE didn’t relocate this themselves.”

Steve’s stomach dips and he feels a lump grow in his throat. This couldn’t be happening, not after how far they’d come—

“What if we did have a way to move it?” Max asks, eyes on Owens.

The man exhales. “Hypothetically if we kept the mainframe intact, plugged it into the power system, and rebooted the consoles as monitors...perhaps. But there’s no way we ourselves could move it without disabling the whole thing.”

Dustin glances at Max as if they’re on the same wavelength, then turns to Owens. “So you’re saying we’d need something so powerful and strong that it could lift the entire mainframe as is and transport it to the arcade in one piece, because if we took it apart we wouldn't be able put it back together without some kind of computer expert?”

“Well, yes.”

Dustin and Max peek at each other, then direct their gazes to Jane. A small smirk tugs at the brunette’s lips.

“No,” Hopper says, “no no no. What’s that look mean?”

She shrugs a shoulder. “Easy.”

“Jane, _no—”_

And then the girl is turning toward the mainframe and extending her arm, palm spread. She bends her fingers and suddenly the chords plugged into the wall outlets pop out and onto the floor.

“Holy shit,” Steve breathes.

Jane lowers her head, eyes dark and fiery as she concentrates on the huge machinery. She grunts and suddenly the entire mainframe screeches against the floor before levitating several inches off the ground.

Owens sways forward. “My god.”

“Is that gonna fit through the door?” Dustin murmurs.

Arm still extended toward the mainframe, Jane whips her head behind her to stare at the door on the other side of the room. She reaches out with her opposite arm and then yells, hand ripping through the air. The doorway instantly crumbles, room shaking as pieces of wall tumble and crash to the floor. Dust blooms and settles onto the ground as the entire group stands frozen in shock.

 _“Holy shit,”_ Steve hisses.

Jane drops her hand facing the door and shrugs. “See? Easy.”

 

* * *

 

“This is crazy, this is crazy,” Steve murmurs as he walks down the hall behind a giant levitating computer. Jane strolls beside it, one arm bent upward as if she’s a waitress holding a tray.

“Are you sure you can guide it the entire way?” Max asks her, concerned.

The girl nods. “The cars were worse.”

Max smirks. "Oh, right."

“Wait, what cars,” Hopper cuts in. “What have you been doing with cars?”

“It’s nothing!” Mike blurts, eyes flashing a warning glare toward Max.

“Sometimes we go to the junkyard and El smashes groups of cars with her mind. It’s awesome.”

“Dustin!” the entire group whines.

Hopper shakes his head. “Kid, if you can get this thing to the arcade in one piece, I’ll think about not grounding you.”

They make it out of the building without a scratch—Owens led them to the transport exit so that they wouldn’t have to destroy any other door frames—and slowly journey to Hopper’s truck. There's no way the mainframe can fit inside, so they decide that Jane will sit in the open hatchback, levitating the computer above them as they ride. Mike and Max climb into the space beside her, Hopper joining to chaperone, and the rest of the kids cram into the backseat.

“Steve,” Hopper orders from the hatchback, pointer finger extended, “you’re driving.”

Steve blanches. “Me?”

“You know the way better than Owens does, it’ll be quicker.”

“But what if—”

“Just stay calm. No one else will be on the road this time of night.”

Steve takes the wheel afterward, Owens slipping in beside him through the passenger door. “Okay, you’ve done this millions of times,” he breathes to himself, “you’re just dropping off Dustin and his friends, no big deal.”

“You alright, son?” Owens asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah,” he lies.

The ride is silent and nerve-wracking, Steve glancing in the rearview mirror ever other minute to check that the computer’s still there and not splintered on the side of the road. After about fifteen minutes they finally arrive at the arcade, and Steve parks in the back lot, slowly rolling the truck to a stop near the rear entrance. As soon as he shifts into park the kids scramble out of the back seat and run behind to check on Jane. Steve and Owens follow suit. When they arrive, the girl looks exhausted, arm trembling as she holds up the huge machinery and a line of blood dripping from her left nostril.

“We’re almost there, okay kid?” Hopper whispers. “You’re doing a great job.”

Jane nods, jaw tight.

Owens turns around to glance at the back door of the arcade. “We’ll have to place it outside and run the wires through the doorway. There’s no way we can fit it inside unless we destroy more walls—then they’ll definitely know someone broke in here.”

Hopper nods in agreement. “Alright. Think you can do that?” he asks Jane.

“Mhm,” the girl hums. Then she’s slowly sliding out of the open hatchback, the mainframe hovering above following her movements. Her converse land on the pavement and then she’s walking toward the back door several feet away. After a minute she steps up onto the sidewalk, slowly lowering her hand so that the computer follows. The massive mainframe gently falls into place as if it’d been there the entire time.

The group lets out a collective sigh and Dustin even claps. “Shh, keep it down,” Lucas says, elbowing him into silence, but his lips are curled into a smile.

Mike runs over and tackles Jane with a hug, both of their dark curls mingling as they hold each other tight. “You’re amazing,” he says just loud enough that Steve can hear from where he stands two feet away. Something tight and painful tugs in his chest, lump swelling in his throat.

“We should get inside,” Hopper says, gesturing to the door.

Max stares upward, eyes roving around the building. “Shouldn’t we check for security cameras or something?”

“Nah, this place doesn’t have any,” the cop answers as he digs into one of his pockets.

Max raises a brow at him. “How do you know that?”

“Answered a few calls here over the years, usually about teens loitering out back to smoke at night and then sneaking in to...do other things,” he explains, fishing out his wallet. He slides a card from inside and holds it between his fingers. “And every time I ask if they have a camera, it’s a no.”

Hopper steps forward and slides the card into the space between the door and its frame just above the doorknob. He jams it downward then jiggles the knob. The door swings open. “They never got an alarm, either.”

Lucas blinks, eyes wide. “Have you done that before?”

“Didn’t know me in high school, kid,” Hopper answers. “Now everyone get inside.”

The group enters the dark arcade, piling in without direction until Dustin flips on one of the switches, rows of consoles lighting up in garish colors and setting the otherwise dark room under a dim neon glow.

“Okay, first we have to plug the mainframe into a power source. Then we need to do some reconfiguring with the equipment we brought,” Owens says. He sighs afterward, shoulders dropping. “Let’s hope this works.”

The group follows the doctor’s orders for the next hour, unplugging and replugging and rewiring as they had earlier that morning. Steve begins to feel lightheaded shortly after, the late time finally catching up with his body. As he takes a particularly large yawn, Hopper brushes up beside him and elbows him lightly on the bicep. “Want a smoke?”

Steve blinks. Usually Hopper would dissuade against that sort of thing with the kids, and even though Steve's nearly an adult now he thought the cop still viewed him as such. “Yeah, sure,” he breathes.

The two walk out back into the frigid night air and Hopper pulls out his cigarettes, handing one and his lighter to Steve. The younger lights up first, the burn of smoke warm in his lungs as he takes his first drag, then tosses the lighter back to Hopper.

“You did good today.”

Steve scoffs as he takes another drag. He’d felt like a ball of pressurized nerves on autopilot, ready to implode of course at any moment. He has no idea what Hopper’s talking about.

They're silent for a few minutes, smoking along side each other in peace, and then Hopper speaks again, softer this time. "I had another daughter once, Sara. She died when she was nine. Not sure if you knew that."

Steve turns his head, stares. "No, I...I didn't. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Destroyed me," Hopper murmurs before taking another drag. "Moved back here and took this job, thought it'd be a walk in the park compared to New York. Didn't expect any of this—government conspiracies, lab experiments, alternate universes, top secret computers," he huffs humorlessly as he gestures to the large mainframe to their left. He sucks on his cigarette, then exhales. "When Will went missing two years ago, I thought Joyce was out of her mind for believing he was safe somewhere, just another mother in grief who couldn't confront reality. Part of me hated her for it because she reminded me of myself, when I'd been too stupid to accept the truth about Sara. But she wasn't wrong, she was right. Completely fucking right. For the first time I—let's just say I believe every word that comes out of her mouth now, okay? And she believes we're gonna find him, Steve."

Steve swallows over the lump that's returned to his throat. He nods, forfeiting words for another pull from his cigarette. He knows if he says something right now he won't be able to keep his emotions in check.

Hopper's silent for another moment. Then: "You know, we hated each other in high school."

Steve raises a brow, then clears his throat. "You and Joyce?"

"Yeah," Hopper answers with a faint smirk. "She thought I was an ass. She was right about that too."

They both take another drag.

"Thought I hated her back, for a while," Hopper continues, voice lower. "Then I realized I was in love with her."

Steve heart hammers in his chest.

Hopper blows out a stream of smoke. "I just hated that she'd never want me back," he explains. "I was a piece of shit who didn't deserve her, and I knew she knew that. Then during our senior year I finally got up the courage to tell her how I felt. Turns out I was an idiot in addition to an ass—she'd been waiting for me to make a move for three years. We dated for a while but I fucked up, as I always did. Fast forward five months later and she's dating Lonnie Byers."

Steve quickly pulls from his cigarette, although the smoke does little to calm his racing chest. "I'm sorry," he manages afterward.

Hopper shrugs. "When I look back at it, the drama seems so stupid. Life'll put that shit into perspective, you know? Especially all this," he says gesturing back to the computer and arcade.

"Yeah," Steve breathes, although he's not sure if he's saying it to Hopper or himself.

Suddenly the door swings open behind them, Dustin's curly mop popping out of the frame. "Guys! Get in here now!” he calls before disappearing back inside.

Hopper and Steve glance at one another, eyes wide, then quickly follow. When Steve enters the arcade he takes in a breath—the neon consoles are still lit, but now all their screens are black save for one blinking green bar. Owens stands at the opposite end of the room, holding one of the lab monitor keyboards that he'd somehow wired into a large Gauntlet console.

“It worked,” Dustin breathes.

Steve’s chest swells and then he's marching down the neon aisle to approach Owens. The doctor glances up at him, a relieved smile ghosting over his lips. He leans the keyboard on the game’s shelf by the control stick and begins typing. Like a visual echo, all the consoles mirror the typed words, a soft green light radiating from their screens as new lines appear.

Owens continues to type code into the console-terminal until he pauses, squinting onto the screen. “Yes, this is it,” he mumbles before turning to the group and extending a hand. “Will, you brought a bag, no? Do you have a notebook?”

Will nods, pulling off his bag and pushing an arm inside to collect at the items. He hands Owens a sketchbook and a black colored pencil. “This is what I’ve got.”

“It’ll do,” Owens breathes and he begins scribbling data down on an open page.

Another hour passes and the doctor is still reading through the data, noting the most important bits in Will’s notebook. The kids lounge across the room, all at various stages of dozing off, and Steve and Hopper stand beside Owens. “How much longer we got, doc?” Hopper asks.

“There are years of research in here," the doctor answers. "I’m trying to localize the data relevant to the Upside Down. One of my lab assistants had been taking samples from the gate to better understand its biological makeup. Then there’s the data from our sessions with Will, and from when he’d been…”

Hopper glances at the kids. Will’s passed out against Mike’s shoulder, open bag splayed over his legs. He sighs. “We should take them home soon.”

Owens nods. “I shouldn’t be too much longer, but I think that’s a good idea.”

“So when will we know how to find Billy?” Steve asks, trepidation blossoming under his skin.

The doctor turns to face him. “Once I finish I’ll need to set up somewhere safe to study the data.”

“We’ll go to Joyce’s, she has more room than my place,” Hopper answers.

“So you don’t…you don’t see anything yet?” Steve continues.

Owens exhales. “I’ll need time with this in order to pull out any evidence. As of now though, no I don’t. I’m sorry son.”

As Steve nods silently, blood running cold, he feels a warm hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find something,” Hopper says.

 

* * *

 

“Everyone get in a single file line.”

Max rolls her eyes. “We’re not in class, Steve.”

“Yeah well, it’s late and you’re all half asleep and I want to make sure I don’t leave any of you idiots behind.”

The young teens line up as they walk down the arcade aisle, Steve following behind and doing a mental attendance count. Hopper stands by the exit, hands on his hips. “You go right to bed, got it?" he says to Jane at the head of the line. "No more funny business.”

“What about the computer? What are you gonna do with it once Owens finishes?” Lucas asks.

“Pack it up and drop it off back at the lab, we don’t have to keep it intact this time around,” the cop answers.

Mike steps out of the line. “But we want to be there when he figures out where Billy is! We have a few more hours until sunrise—”

“Hey, did I say you could move? Back in line,” Steve orders.

The brunette does so begrudgingly.

“You can come to Will’s later and we’ll fill you in then,” Hopper responds. “But in the meantime, Steve’s taking you all home and you’re going to bed.”

“We’re in high school now, we’re not children,” Mike argues.

“And that’s why I allowed you to stay up this late in the first place. Now get to it,” he says, opening the door behind him. The party reluctantly begins walking out the door, Steve following behind. Hopper puts a hand on his shoulder before he exits. “You too, get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll handle the rest here.”

 

* * *

 

Steve drops Max off last. The car’s quiet on the ride over, both teens too numb and exhausted from the night’s activities to strike up a conversation, but internally Steve’s heart pounds loud and clear. As he pulls onto her street his throat constricts, anxiety clawing and scraping his stomach, his chest, his heart. Billy’s house is visible in the distance and he averts his gaze from its direction as he approaches, focusing on the gravel road instead. He parks several houses back by a large tree—he doesn't want to get Max in trouble and he can't handle getting any closer himself. He swallows in the darkness and then turns to the redhead, who he finds is already staring at him with a look he can’t quite place.

“What?” Steve asks. His voice sounds gravelly and broken, like he’d just woken up or smoked a pack of Marlboros.

The girl’s eyes flicker between his. “We’ll find him, okay?”

Steve huffs—the kid’s four years his junior and technically Billy’s family, yet she’s the one comforting him. “So everyone keeps telling me.”

“Hey,” Max scolds, “we _will._ You really think Billy’s gonna let a demodog hurt him? He probably has the entire Upside Down shaking in their boots or…whatever right now.”

Steve snorts lightly, lips quirking upward. “Yeah,” he whispers. "I know."

They’re both silent for a moment. Then, softly: “He’s lucky.”

“What?” Steve responds with knit brows.

Max swallows, shrugging one shoulder so that a lock of her red hair falls forward. “Billy never had a friend like you before, at least as long as I’ve known him. He’s lucky he has someone like you.”

Steve wraps his fingers around the bottom of the steering wheel. “I don’t know about that,” he breathes.

“It’s true! You’re good for him. Like, when you two started hanging out he made me waffles for breakfast before school. _Waffles._ And not Eggos, I mean the real shit.”

Steve wants to laugh but his lips tremble into a frown instead.

Max pauses. “Steve?”

He exhales a shaky breath, leaning backward in his seat, and rubs both hands over his face. When he’s calmed himself enough he drops them. Max is still staring, blue eyes wide with a combination of surprise and sympathy.

“I’m fine, Max,” Steve shrugs. “Just a long night.”

The redhead looks away, then nods. “Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. Before she exits the Beemer, she turns to him one last time. “I’m a good listener, if you ever want to…you have to be y’know, when you’re friends with Dustin,” she adds jokingly, but it falls flat.

Steve quirks his lips, smile not meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” Max responds. She swallows awkwardly. “See you tomorrow, or today technically I guess?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods.

Then the girl leaves his car, shutting the door quietly and sending him one last glance before sneaking down the sidewalk toward her house. He watches until he knows she’s made it to her driveway, then shifts his car back into drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be a long one. Comments help me get inspired. :)


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